


It's Hard for Me to Go Home

by LarryOn



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dimension Travel, Famous Louis Tomlinson, Florist Harry, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:07:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22579078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LarryOn/pseuds/LarryOn
Summary: Harry Styles is an honest person. At least, he tries to be. But there are some things that he just can't bring himself to talk about. Some secrets that are easier kept to himself. Easier, that is, until keeping secrets and telling white lies causes Harry to wake up in a flat that's not his own, in a life he doesn't recognize, living out every lie he's ever told.ORHarry is not entirely truthful when he plays Burning Questions on Ellen so he is sent to an alternate dimension where he's a lonely florist and Louis is still a former boy bander.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 56
Kudos: 107





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Required watching: [Harry playing Burning Questions on Ellen](https://youtu.be/CzaJoyxRETQ)
> 
> I'm a bit nervous about posting this as I go but why not try, right? That being said, I have no idea how frequently I will be posting! I guess we'll find out.
> 
> Thank you to my wonderful friend and beta [maevewren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maevewren) for being better at grammar and punctuation than I am and always listening to me ramble.
> 
> Title is from "To Be So Lonely" by our boy, Harry. Duh.

“You have ten minutes, Harry!”

Harry startles out of a daze and calls out toward the closed door of his dressing room. “Wha—oh…oh, yeah. Cheers!”

He flops down onto the sleek blue couch with a groan, one arm draped across his eyes, the other hand clutching at his phone. What he’d really like to do in this moment is hurl the thing across the room and watch it smash into a million bits that he could then grind into the carpet with the heel of his Gucci boot. How fucking fitting would that be? Spelled out in crystals across the back of his heels is the word “sucker.” He’s not totally sure who’s the bigger sucker in this situation but it seems apropos nonetheless. He doesn’t do it, though. It wouldn’t solve anything and destroying a brand new iPhone on purpose is just wasteful. He feels bad enough replacing his phone every time a new model is released, but he can’t help that Apple just keeps sending them. Harry reminds himself that he needs to look into electronics recycling. He knows those lithium batteries are shit for the environment. He lets the phone slip out of his hand and drop to the carpet with a gentle thud.

_You have ten minutes, Styles. Take some deep breaths. Center yourself._

This really couldn’t have happened at a worse time. Ok, that’s a silly thing to say. There’s never a good time to get a text from your on-again/off-again boyfriend saying that you _need to talk. In person_ , when you haven’t actually talked in person in who knows how long and you just really don’t want to have the inevitable conversation that you know is coming in which he dumps your ass, _yet again_.

Even if there was maybe, possibly, an okay time for the average person to get dumped, Harry Styles is not an average person, as much as he is loath to admit. It’s true, though. He’s an atypical man with an atypical schedule and his life is currently in overdrive while he’s in the middle of releasing and promoting his new album.

How does Harry know that he’s about to get dumped? Aside from the aforementioned ominous text from Louis, Harry has also just read something on a gossip site that clinched things in his mind:

A trusted informant tells us that a former boy bander was spotted out in Soho Sunday night, celebrating with friends and his long term girlfriend. What were they celebrating, you ask? Our informant couldn’t say but confirms that girlfriend was wearing some flashy new jewelry on her left hand, if you know what we mean! These two have had their ups and downs but there’s no denying they’ve got a whole lot of HISTORY. Seems like former boy bander is going to make sure no one’s going to STEAL HIS GIRL.

There’s no chance this is about anyone other than Louis and Eleanor, Louis’s long time friend/girlfriend/beard/assistant/who-even-knows. Harry knew things between Louis and him had become especially strained in the last year or so, but pulling a stunt like this really takes things to a new level. Or maybe it’s not a stunt! Maybe this is what Louis wants and Harry hasn’t given him the opportunity to talk about it. God knows there are things Harry has never been able to tell Louis. Like how much the whole Eleanor situation bothers him. Or how much Harry wants to come out, publicly, not just to their family and closest friends.

This was probably inevitable, but it’s a crap way to hear the news. But Harry knows he hasn’t given Louis the chance to tell him first. He’s only got himself to blame. It still sucks. It still hurts. And it doesn’t make Harry want to talk to Louis any more than he did before.

So he leaves his phone on the floor.

***

“Ok, so as I’m sure you’ve been told already, Ellen is going to ask you a series of questions, all of which have been approved by your people.” A production assistant gives Harry final instructions as they make their way to the stage.

 _Why did I agree to this?_ Stupid question, he knows this. He didn’t agree to this, not really. “His people,” as the PA called them, had done the agreeing. What Harry had agreed to was to trust Jeff and his team to work out all of the promo for this album. To decide what type of appearances Harry was going to make and when. This was not unwise, Harry knows as much. Jeff is good at what he does. It’s not his fault that this album release just happens to fall in the middle of yet another rough patch in Harry’s love life. Although, now that he thinks of it, is his love life much more than one rough patch after another? Fair odds on this happening no matter when the album came out. Jeff can’t be blamed for that.

Harry brings a hand to his face and squeezes his jaw, trying to release some of the tension that refuses to dissipate. The PA is still talking, running through the rules of the game that Harry will be playing. As if it’s an actual game, as if there are consequences if he cheats. His eyes widen and he blinks a few times, inhaling deeply through his nose. He can act “normal.” This is a show. This is what he does. He just needs to be charming and funny and not a miserable sod. He wills the moisture that has gathered in the corners of his eyes to recede. It works. Kind of. He’s good at this.

“After you’ve answered a question you hit the buzzer in front of you. Now, this is very important: _please_ , only hit the buzzer once you’ve given your final, truthful answer. And _whatever you do_ , never hit the button twice. Do you understand?”

“Er, yeah…yes, got it. Final answer, push the button twice.”

“No! _Don’t_ push the button twice. _Ever._ Now seriously, can you remember that?”

“Oh sure. Yes, I can remember that. Sorry,” Harry mumbles. Jesus Christ, why does it matter? Probably for the sake of the sound mix. Can’t make very good TV to have nonstop buzzing drowning out their voices.

“And _please—”_ she reiterates as she practically shoves Harry through a curtain, “Tell the truth!”

“Oof!” Harry grunts as he stumbles out onto the stage. “Does it actually matter?” he turns and calls back to the PA, but she’s gone. He’s aware of the audience behind him, buzzing a little louder upon spotting him. They’re not shooting yet. Ellen walks over to meet him. He’s already recorded an interview with her and a gag backstage with an unsuspecting pizza delivery guy and he’s about ready to be done with this day. This game is the last thing they’ll record. You can do this, Harry thinks to himself.

“You all set, Harry?” Ellen asks, a mischievous look in her eye.

Harry sighs. “Ready!” He puts on a happy face and feigns enthusiasm as he takes his place behind a podium, ridiculously large red button on top.

“Boxers or briefs?” Ellen asks.

Jesus Christ, these questions. Harry has no desire to answer anything too personal and probing, but really? It’s almost 2020. Does anyone actually care about what kind of pants he wears?

He realizes he hasn’t answered. Ellen is waiting.

“Er,” he stutters, “What shape is a brief?”

“Uh…” Ellen gives him a look, disbelieving that a 25-year old is actually asking this question. Oh cram it, _Ellen_ , Harry thinks. Joke’s on you. Truth is I don’t even wear pants most of the time.

“Boxers are the ones like swimming shorts?” Not that he’s going to admit that on TV.

“Yeah,” Ellen says.

“Briefs.” Harry smacks the red button. Stupid game. How many more of these questions are there, he wonders.

Ellen rattles off a few more, nothing too salacious. Harry manages to do his job and get a laugh or two out of the audience. Being truthful, no less! He’s quite pleased with that. Some of the questions, though…much like “boxers or briefs,” he just doesn’t want to divulge the truth, or simply doesn’t feel like getting into it.

“What’s your guilty pleasure?” Ellen fires at him.

Harry wants to roll his eyes at that one. He hates the phrase “guilty pleasure.” He feels zero guilt for any of his pleasures. Does he feel like getting up on that soapbox right now? Not especially.

“Er…working out to One Direction.” He taps the buzzer. That gets a laugh out of the crowd.

“Are you dating anyone?” Ellen asks.

Oh god. This is an easy one to answer, though whether he’s truthful or not he’s unsure. The story he tells the public is “No.” Always “No.” Because for as long as he can remember when the answer’s technically “yes,” he’s still going to say “no.” Because the “yes” has always referred to Louis and that “yes” has always been a secret. So Harry quickly and easily blurts out “no” and slaps the buzzer. It does get him thinking, though. Is he dating anyone? Is this even a lie anymore? When he hasn’t seen Louis in person in at least three months and he’s actively avoiding Louis’s calls? Just because Louis is trying to break up with him doesn’t mean they’re over yet, right? Harry has done his level best to put him off and avoid making it official. So did he just lie? Harry stubbornly thinks that he did.

“If you could have any other job, what would it be?”

Gah. This fucking question. For years Harry’s answer was always “baker” because it was easy and came to mind. He worked at a bakery, sweeping up and running the cash register, before he auditioned for The X Factor. But the old “I worked in a bakery” storyline has gotten pretty stale at this point. The truth is: nothing. There is no other job that Harry could imagine himself having. Music is it for him. If he weren’t a successful musician he thinks he’d just be, well, an unsuccessful musician. But he doesn’t really feel like saying that.

“A florist.” Huh. That’s a choice. Is florist much better than baker? Maybe he’s been reading too much fanfiction.Oh well. At least it’s a change of pace.

He’s sitting there, waiting for the next question (or was that the last one? Please, let that be the last one) when Ellen reaches in front of him and hits the red buzzer. Oh shoot, he forgot to do that. He absentmindedly reaches out and taps it a second time before remembering the warning he got from the PA. Shit. He looks up and quickly seeks out her face, next to one of the cameras. She looks to be mid-cringe but it’s hard to say with the lights shining in his eyes. Oh well. Honestly, how could it possibly matter?

“What would your signature fragrance be called?”

Another stupid one. You’d think after nearly a decade of being asked these shit questions he’d have some better responses on hand.

“Boxers or briefs.” That gets a good laugh at least. Ridiculous answer to a ridiculous question.

“What was the last lie you told?” Ellen is still going.

“That I wanted to play this game.” Harry responds immediately. At least that one’s true. Well, except for all the times he’s lied _during_ the game. _Fuck_. Another lie.

Thankfully, that one was the last question. Game over, day over, Harry is free to leave. He gives Ellen a brief hug and thanks her for having him on the show before leaving the stage. He can’t help but notice an odd look on the PA’s face as she watches him leave. Harry pauses at the curtain and gives her a small wave and an apologetic nod.

“Sorry, I may have broken a rule or two. I hope the sound is ok…or—er—whatever…” the woman swallows deeply then averts her eyes, suddenly looking anywhere but at Harry. He gives an awkward smile and finally steps past the curtain. What a weird encounter. What a weird day. Maybe it’s just him, projecting all of his Louis bullshit onto everything else. He needs to get out of here.

Harry heads straight from the studio to LAX. He’s flying back to London tonight. Back to his house. Back to Louis? No. He’ll continue to put that off as long as possible. It shouldn’t be too hard. He’s got a lot more album promo to do and a secret show next Thursday to celebrate the release. He presses his forehead to the cool glass of the car window as his driver makes his way down the 405. His bodyguard, Mason, is sitting in the passenger seat, his nearly seven-foot frame hunched to fit in the car. Harry sighs and Mason turns to look at him with a furrowed brow.

“Are you ok back there?”

“Yeah, fine. Thanks. Just looking forward to getting on the plane,” Harry mutters. Mason doesn’t look like he believes him but he turns back toward the windshield.

Harry wants to be mad at Louis, putting him through this in the middle of all this career chaos, but he’s just sad. He and Louis have been through so much together, over so many years. It was never easy and it was never perfect, but it was always there. Even when it wasn’t. Even when they had broken up, Harry knew it wasn’t over, not really. He always felt the pull of Louis, knew they’d figure it out somehow. That they’d come crashing back together, their lives a tangled mess, impossible to pick apart, ever since Harry was 16. But now…it feels different. It feels like they’ve actually grown apart. Like they’ve grown up out of the snarled knot of their shared past, figuring things out, carving out their futures, but separately. Alone.

Of course they haven’t discussed any of this. They haven’t discussed anything lately. Harry can just feel it. The end is coming. He glances down at his phone, the last text he’s received from Louis still pulled up on the screen.

_Hope all went well today and Ellen didn’t put you through too much shit. Glad you’re coming home. Really really need to talk to you. I’m fucking pissed at you for ignoring my calls but at this point I can wait until I see you in person. I’m not letting you ignore me anymore Styles. WE’RE TALKING TOMORROW._

A feeling of dread settles in Harry’s stomach. He goes through security in a fog, follows Mason blindly through the airport, head down, doing his best to avoid making eye contact with fans. Once they’ve boarded the plane, Harry settles into his seat as quickly as possible, longing to be unconscious, sick and tired of thinking about Louis. Harry’s not sure how he’s going to put Louis off when he lands at Heathrow tomorrow, but he’s sure going to try.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry is dreaming.

In his dream he’s sprawled out, face down on a squashy bed, legs tangled in a rumpled linen duvet, his fists buried in the softest down pillow, clutching it to his chest. He hears the din of city traffic muffled in the distance. The cold gray light of a December morning spills in through grimy windows and is becoming harder to block out.

He stretches his legs and groans, trying not to think too hard about what’s happening for fear of acknowledging the dream and stirring himself out of it. This dream bed is far too soft for his taste, or his back for that matter, but it’s certainly more pleasant than the fully reclined airplane seat that he knows is waiting for him when he wakes up. He nuzzles his face into the pillow and waits for the dream to inevitably fade, or to slip back into a deeper sleep.

He lies there. And waits. And lies there some more. And waits some more. And even more.

There’s a soft thump on the bed next to him, followed by what sounds like purring approaching his head. Without moving his body, Harry opens one eye to see a fluffy black cat padding toward him across the bed. It’s got a massive plume of a tail, held high and lazily trailing back and forth. It’s wearing a thin blue collar with a rose gold buckle, a bell and a name tag hanging from it and tinkling gently as the cat comes closer.

“Hello…” Harry says cautiously. This is the most lucid dream he’s ever had. The cat kneads Harry’s pillow a few times before lunging at his face and head-butting Harry’s cheek. Its nose is cold and slightly damp, like a dog’s.

“Gah!” Harry recoils from the cat and scrambles backward toward the headboard. “What the—” His shouting and sudden movement startle the cat, who turns tail and scampers off the bed. Harry watches it run across the room and out the door.

His body tenses. Without him moving a muscle his eyes scan the room. What the fuck is happening? This lucid dream is starting to seem like it’s 100% lucidity and 0% dream. Where is the plane? Where is Mason? _Where is Harry?_

Did he take an Ambien on the plane and somehow forget landing at Heathrow? Even if he did, he still has no clue where he crashed last night. He’s in a bedroom, clearly. But whose? Not his own, that’s for sure. Not Louis’s. Not the guest room at his mum’s. Perhaps some other friend’s guest bed? But why? How did he get here? The last thing Harry remembers is turning off the overhead light on the plane and pulling his cap down over his eyes.

The room is small. A wardrobe sits against the far wall and there’s a chest of drawers next to the bed, space for little else. The floor of wide old wooden planks looks to have been refinished a hundred times. The walls are white. There is one window to the right of the bed, gauzy white curtains hang on either side. The extra pillow on the other side of the bed doesn’t look slept on. Harry feels reasonably confident he slept alone. Small comfort.

Harry glances around for his phone. There is _a_ phone, not his, sitting atop the dresser. It’s a banged up iPhone 5s with a cracked screen. He feels guilty for prying but decides the ends justify the means as he presses the home button, hoping to get a clue as to whom the phone belongs to. It’s dead. Of course. He plugs it into the charger he finds on the other side of the bed. Whomever it belongs to will surely appreciate it.

There’s no sign of his own phone. In fact, there’s no sign of any of his belongings. When he got on the plane last night he was wearing an acid green Marc Jacobs sweater and a pair of loose brown corduroys. His clothes are nowhere to be seen and he’s currently wearing a threadbare pair of trackie bottoms and a dingy white undershirt. There’s nothing on the floor, he doesn’t see his suitcase anywhere and—oh god, no. Harry brings a hand up to his throat. His pearls. Or rather, his deceased grandmother’s pearls that he’s been wearing nonstop recently. No, no, no, no. He looks about the room even more frantically now. He can’t have lost his grandmother’s necklace.

Harry pads over to the door. Without poking his head out he calls, “Hello?” He waits a beat. No answer. He peeks around the doorframe. “Hello?” he calls again.

When, again, no one answers, he steps out and cautiously looks around. The rest of the flat consists of a sparsely furnished kitchen and sitting area. There’s a small table with a couple chairs, a faded chintz sofa with a striped afghan draped over the back, and a scuffed-up coffee table in front of it. A little three-shelf bookcase sits next to the front door, on top of which rest a bowl of keys and a small pile of post. Harry rushes over, keeping an eye on the front door, paranoid that someone will enter at any minute and catch him snooping. He picks up the envelope on the top of the pile.

It’s addressed to him.

He drops the envelope and flips through the rest of the stack. Harry Styles. Harry Styles. Harry Styles. They’re all addressed to him. He drops the post, letting it scatter around his feet. He’s suddenly tense, glancing around the room, thinking back to the stunt he pulled yesterday with the pizza delivery guy and the hidden cameras. Is this a prank? Is he misremembering what happened after he had to play that game? Is Ellen going to pop out and scare him at any moment?

Harry doesn’t move a muscle. His breathing slows; he tries to be as silent as possible.

There’s a knock at the door.

“Gah!” Harry instinctively brings his arms up to his face as he leaps back from the door. His heart races.

“Harry? You okay in there?” a muffled voice calls through the door. It sounds familiar. It’s not Ellen, though. He can say that with certainty.

Harry opens the door a crack and peers out into the entryway.

“Oh my god, Mason!” Harry feels every muscle in his body relax as he sees his bodyguard standing on the doormat. He runs a hand through his hair. “Holy shit, come in. Please. Come in.”

“Oh, er—” Mason looks confused. “I don’t have to…I was just wondering if you were okay. It’s getting late.”

“Is it?” Harry looks about the room for a clock, but there isn’t one as far as he can tell. “I’m so sorry, I’m a bit turned around this morning. I can’t remember what’s on the schedule for today. Honestly, I’m rather confused about what happened last night and, well…” He gestures to the flat, then looks back to Mason, eyebrows raised. “All this?”

“Erm, well…as far as I saw, you clocked out at the usual time but, erm—I didn’t see, I mean, I don’t ever…er, I wouldn’t know what you do at night? I always assume you just go home, but I guess I wouldn’t know for sure?” Mason looks confused.

Harry looks confused right back at him.

“Sooooo…” Harry draws out the word. “The, er…the schedule? I’m sorry I’m so scattered this morning. I can’t remember what’s happening for the life of me and I can’t find my phone either. You wouldn’t know where it is, would you?”

Mason blinks down at Harry. “Your phone? No, I wouldn’t know where that is. And, I mean, the schedule is same as usual. Unless you want to do the runs today. We can switch if you want. I can stay here.”

Harry feels like his brain has dissolved. “A run? Wouldn’t you…why would you stay here? What—” Harry scrunches his eyes closed and fists his hands into his hair. What the fuck is happening?

“You seem…” Mason looks to be considering his words carefully. “…unwell. Maybe you should take the day off. Or the morning, at least. Why don’t I go downstairs and open up. I can always do the deliveries at lunch; close up for a few hours if necessary. I think you need it.”

Harry just stares back at him, brow furrowed, eyes squinting. Is he still asleep? Has he had a stroke? He’s starting to get nervous. Something very strange is going on here. Mason is slowly backing away from the door, his hands palm-out in front of him, as if he’s stepping away from a wild animal he’s trying hard not to provoke. Suddenly, his eyes move from Harry’s face to something just behind him. Mason stoops quickly to the floor.

“Oops! No ya don’t, sneaky girl.” He straightens up with the fluffy black cat in his arms. “I think it’s best if you stay up here today, Boxy.” He holds the cat out to Harry.

“Wha—” Harry doesn’t move to take the cat.

Mason gives him one last look of confused concern before stooping to shoo the cat back into the flat.

“Okay, somebody’s got to go open up. Take the whole day if you need to. It seems like a good idea. I’ll be fine on my own. Just—” He gives Harry a once-over. “Let me know if you need anything, or like, want me to call…er, anyone.”

“So I’m just going to—” Harry turns to look back into the flat, then back to Mason, completely lost for something to say. “You’re just—and I’m—I don’t—” he stutters.

“Don’t worry about anything. You should go lie down. Seriously.” Mason slowly descends the stairs, watching Harry as if to make sure he doesn’t follow.

“But—” Harry wants to call him back, but doesn’t know what to say. As Mason reaches the bottom of the stairs he turns quickly and slips out the door, making his escape.

“Shit,” Harry mutters to himself, watching the door to the outside click shut. He steps back into the flat and closes the door behind him. “Shit!” he says a little more loudly. He leans back against the door and slides down until he’s seated on the floor. The cat takes this as an invitation to approach him, rubbing her head against his hand, wheedling some neck scratches out of him.

“Boxy, is it?” The cat starts to purr. “What the fuck am I doing here?” The cat arches her back under Harry’s hand and steps up onto his stomach, attempting to nuzzle under his chin. Harry straightens his legs and grasps the cat under its front legs, holding it out in front of him to look it in the face.

“That’s a genuine question. What is happening?” The cat has stopped purring and stares right back at him.

“Mrrrow?”

“That’s not helpful,” Harry sighs. He’s about to put the cat down when he spots the tag hanging from her collar. It says:

“Boxers or Briefs”

Sunflower Florists

+44 020 7946 0213

“Is that really your name?” He looks the cat in the eye. She doesn’t respond.

He lets the cat go and she stalks off toward the bedroom. Harry stares off into the distance. Things are starting to click into place in his mind in a way he finds unsettling. He gets to his feet and gathers up all of the post from the floor, the post addressed to him, he hasn’t forgotten. He replaces it where he found it and follows the cat into the bedroom. His stomach feels a bit queasy at what he’s about to do, but he has a suspicion.

He walks around to the far side of the bed and retrieves the iPhone he plugged in earlier. It’s charged enough now that the screen lights up when he unplugs it. Harry spares a glance toward the cat who has ensconced herself in the dead center of the bed.

“I’m not feeling great about this,” he tells her. She blinks at him once before lowering her head to her paws and shutting her eyes.

Harry’s thumb hovers over the home button on the phone. He takes a deep breath, then presses the button, giving it a moment to read his fingerprint. The phone unlocks, no problem. It’s his phone.

“Oh shit.”

***

Fucking Ellen.

Harry has ceased inspecting the flat, looking for hidden cameras, expecting Ellen to be crouched around every corner, ready to lunge at him. She’s not here, nor are her cameras, but there’s no doubt in Harry’s mind she’s responsible for this. That stupid fucking asinine game. Why did he ever agree to play it?

He’s peered out the front window and figured out the flat is on the first floor, above some sort of shop. The florists from Boxy’s tag, surely. So he’s done this to himself. He lied about the sort of job he’d like to have, he lied about the ‘boxers or briefs,’ what else did he lie about? His head is swimming so badly, he can barely conjure up a single memory from the day before. The game, and Ellen, and the studio seem to be literally dimensions away from where he currently finds himself. He guesses he can cut himself some slack.

So at this point Harry is assuming this alternate dimension version of himself whose life Ellen has somehow propelled him into is:

A) not a pop star (he clearly has very little money);

B) not even a musician (not only is there no guitar or keyboard in the flat, there isn’t even a turntable or a bluetooth speaker); and

C) a florist. Who works with his bodyguard Mason. Who is definitely not his bodyguard anymore. Maybe Harry even owns the flower shop? He lives above it, after all, and Mason seemed to treat him like the boss. Why else would he not write Harry off immediately for acting like such a nutter?

He hasn’t gotten much further than that. He decides there’s nothing that can be done just hanging around the flat. If he’s going to figure out how to get himself out of this mess he needs to get out of here. Go find Mason at the very least. See if he can get any more information out of him.

He takes a quick shower; the water pressure is shit and the temperature never gets above lukewarm. Harry doesn’t think of himself as particularly high maintenance but, Jesus Christ, he hopes he doesn’t have to put up with that for long. Standing beneath the pitiful dribble of tepid water, Harry notices for the first time that his body is devoid of any and all tattoos he’s amassed over the years. He spins around like a dog chasing its tail, searching for any hint of ink but there’s nothing. And he nearly slips and falls in the shower while he’s at it. Harry loves his tattoos. Their sudden disappearance adds to the massive pile of shock he’s already feeling.

He’s equally dismayed by this alternate Harry’s wardrobe. It’s nothing but plain tees and black skinny jeans. He appears to own but _two_ pairs of shoes. Both Vans, both threadbare and barely clinging to existence. It’s clear this Harry doesn’t have the same financial resources that he does, but come on. Pop into a charity shop once in a while. Having some sense of personal style doesn’t cost a thing. Much like the flat, there’s an austerity in this Harry’s wardrobe that feels unsettling. Sad, almost.

Harry pockets the cracked phone and a set of keys he finds in a bowl by the front door. As he steps into the hallway Boxy winds her way through his legs and saunters to the top of the stairs. She turns back to look at him as if waiting for him to follow.

“You’re coming with me, then?” he says, brows raised. She meows in response, then trots down the stairs. She clearly knows their routine.

The shop is small and crammed to bursting with potted plants and buckets of cut flowers. An old wooden floor similar to the flat above has been painted in a black and green diamond pattern. Hundreds of swags of dried flowers hang across the ceiling and the entire place smells fresh and green.

Boxy scampers in ahead of him, leading the way with her tail held high. She makes her way across the shop and hops up onto the work surface in the back, taking a seat in front of a concerned-looking Mason putting the finishing touches on a dozen matching centerpieces. The cat looks back to Harry, as if waiting for him to join her. _I think she knows_ , he thinks, eying her warily.

“You’re not taking the day off?” Mason asks.

“No! I’m, er, feeling better,” Harry stammers. “Felt bad leaving you here to, er…do everything on your own.”

“Are you sure you’re okay? You seem a little…off.”

“I’m fine! I’m totally fine and normal, okay? You just, er, keep doing…whatever you’re doing and I’ll, er, do… er, something else?”

Mason does not look convinced.

“Sure. Okay.” He makes one last tweak to the arrangement in front of him. “These are all ready for delivery, so I’m going to finish loading up the van and head out. You’re sure you’re up for working? We can still close for a couple hours while I’m gone.”

“No, no…I’m fine! I’ll just stay here and er, ah…mmm…” Harry draws out the sound and gives Mason a leading look, hoping he’ll jump in and offer up some guidance.

“Mmmmmind the till?” Mason volunteers.

“Yes! That. Will defo do that.” Harry jabs a finger in Mason’s direction. “Mind the till and er…”

Mason stares at him, blinking. Harry puts a palm out and bobs his head a bit, trying to encourage Mason to help him out one more time.

“Complete the online orders?” Mason finally gets it.

“…complete the online orders!” Harry rattles off, as if the thought just occurred to him as well. “Mind the till and complete the online orders. I will do both of those things! While you are gone. That will be nooooo problem. No problemo. None at all.” Harry crosses his arms over his chest and can’t seem to stop his head from nodding, trying to instill a modicum of confidence in Mason. It doesn’t seem to be working.

“Alright then!” Harry claps his hands, startling Boxy into leaping off the counter and scampering over to the front window. Harry walks behind the counter and makes a shooing motion at Mason, trying to get him out the door. “You go ahead and make those deliveries. I’ve got this! I’m feeling fine—feeling great, even! So, so great. I’ll see you when you get back!”

Mason looks unconvinced but loads the arrangements into a crate and heads for the door anyway, keeping an eye on Harry as he goes.

“Okay, well…call me?” he mutters as he finally goes to leave. “Call me. Please. If there’s anything you need.”

“Can dosville, baby doll!” Harry shoots a couple of awkward finger guns Mason’s way and gives a rather forced-sounding chuckle. Mason blinks a few times more, then slowly backs out of the shop.

As the tinkle of the bells over the front door fades Harry knocks a fist against his forehead. Fucking twit. Not raising any suspicions with Mason now, is he? Harry sits back on the stool behind the till. Boxy has gotten over her scare and returns to her perch on the counter.

“Are you going to help me with this?” Harry asks her, wearily. He doesn’t think he has a choice but to act as this other Harry while he figures out a way to get back to his real life. Getting himself committed to a psychiatric hospital for spouting off about interdimensional travel will not help his cause. He’s keeping this secret between himself and the cat.

To Harry’s (and Boxy’s) astonishment, he’s not terrible at all the flower shop…stuff. He finds that if he distracts himself and disengages his brain a little bit, which is not hard to do at the moment, he seems to have a sort of muscle memory for it all. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows all of this stuff. It kind of freaks him out. But at the same time, it’s a relief to know it will be that much easier to keep his secret for the time being. He spends a couple hours ringing up customers and working his way through the list of online orders he finds on the computer.

He’s beginning to miss Mason and expects him to return any minute. He’s just about completed all of the day’s orders and is rummaging around under the counter for a new spool of twill tape when he hears the jingle of the bells over the front door.

“Is that you, Mason?” Harry calls. “I can’t seem to find any more ribbon. Are we out?”

“Sorry, lad. You’ve got the wrong guy.”

Harry freezes. He knows that voice. No, no, no, no, no! How is this possible?

He pops up from behind the counter and confirms his suspicion.

“Louis!” There he is, in the flesh. In the flower shop.

“Gah!” Louis jumps back, one hand to his chest. “Fuck! You scared me, mate!”

“Oh, god. Sorry! I’m sorry. I—” Harry’s taken aback. He’s not sure what to say. Does he know this Louis? More importantly, does this Louis know _him_? It looks like his Louis, though perhaps not on his best days. He’s wearing a pair of black trackie bottoms and an oversized gray hoodie, the hood pulled up over a faded black Adidas cap. He’s got several days worth of stubble on his chin and dark circles under his eyes. Harry’s heart clenches. It’s been a long time since he and Louis, any Louis, were in the same room together. He realizes he’s missed him. This Louis doesn’t look as though things are going his way at the moment. Is Harry’s Louis in a similar state, wherever, whenever, _however_ he is? Harry feels a twinge of guilt in the pit of his stomach. All this time he’s been avoiding Louis, not wanting to deal with their relationship, not ready to handle whatever effects seeing Louis might have on his state of mind. What if Louis has needed him? Harry can’t believe he’s been so self-centered.

“Erm, you okay, mate?” Louis’s giving him a concerned look.

Harry realizes he’s been staring, mouth agape. They’re not mates. Louis never calls him “mate.” Surely that means this Louis is a stranger? Oh god, and Harry called him by his name…how is he going to explain that?

“I’m Louis, but I guess you already knew that.” Louis extends a hand to slap Harry’s. “Are you a fan, then?”

“Oh! Yes! A fan,” Harry stammers. “Yes, I am most definitely a fan of One Direction.” Shit. What if he’s not in One Direction? What if there is no One Direction? Harry’s not so full of himself to imagine no Harry equals no 1D, but still. He needs to stop making assumptions and just voicing them to—

“Sick, mate. Always love to meet a fan.”

Okay then. Phew.

“So, my mate recommended I come in here, said he’s a friend of the owner, Harry? I have kind of an important job for you and I really need someone who’s not going to cock it up.”

“You’ve come to the right place, then. Not cocking things up happens to be one of our specialties!” Harry says, facetiously. This entire situation is a giant cockup. And, hold on, a mate recommended the shop? A friend of Harry’s, no less. Who on Earth could that be? How does famous boy bander Louis Tomlinson have a mutual acquaintance with skint florist (and apparent shop-owner?) Harry Styles?

Louis raises a skeptical brow at Harry. He remains silent.

“I’m kidding,” Harry says. “I mean, I’m not—we’re good! We are an excellent flower shop. We will meet all of your flower shop….ing needs, absolutely.” Harry has never been smooth. Hopefully that’s true across dimensions, otherwise he’s going to raise some alarm bells. “I’m Harry, by the way. Pleased to meet you Louis. Tomlinson. Louis Tomlinson, famous musician.”

“Ha. Yeah, you might say that.”

That’s a strange thing for Louis to say.

“Yes, well, er,” Harry stutters. “What can I do for you, then?”

Louis is quiet for a minute, looking into Harry’s face over the counter. There’s a touch of something in his expression that Harry can’t identify. Oh god, does he actually recognize me, Harry thinks. Do we know each other in some way and he’s just forgotten? But Louis quickly blinks and snaps himself out of it, looking down at his hands as he talks.

“Right, so, I want to surprise somebody.”

Oh no, Harry thinks. Louis’s not talking about—

“My girlfriend, actually. Eleanor.”

Shit.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm about to have a significant birthday and today my parents gave me a garment steamer so now I'm posting chapter 3 sooner than I planned to cheer myself up. Wheeeeee! With all of this boring information in mind: ENJOY!

The rest of the workday goes by in a haze. As if this weren’t already the weirdest fucking day of Harry’s entire goddamned life, his run-in with Louis has him even more twisted up, not to mention heartsick on top of everything else.

Louis is with Eleanor. Fucking figures that every single thing about Harry’s life is the polar opposite here, but Louis is still with Eleanor. Even more so, it seems! In Harry’s world, she’s always been around but her relationship with Louis was, well, not exactly a relationship. She’s been a friend, an assistant, a dog sitter, and to the media, yes, a girlfriend. But it was never real. Not really real. Unless…Harry never allowed himself to believe it was real, but he can’t actually say definitively that Louis and Eleanor were never an item. He knows Louis has certainly played their romance up for the media. Harry begrudgingly accepted it as Louis’s way of coping with their situation. Louis’s compulsion to stay closeted, his fear of the relationship between himself and Harry being officially confirmed. But if he’s honest, Harry and Louis have never had a real conversation about the whole Eleanor situation. It’s always been a thing that they just tiptoed around. When Harry and Louis were together, they were together. They knew how they felt about each other and that had seemed like enough. But they were so young. Young when they first got together and young even now. They are still _so_ young, with busy lives and careers and so many distractions that it has been easy to float along in a pseudo-relationship, being together when they can, not making a huge deal out of things when they can’t, and never, _never_ talking about commitment, or the future, or anything serious or important. So Harry can’t really say with any certainty that his Louis wasn’t actually dating Eleanor. That blurb on the gossip site seemed to suggest otherwise.

This Louis, not _his_ Louis, is for sure dating her. This Louis is feeling badly that he has been a less than stellar boyfriend and this Louis is looking to pull off a grand romantic gesture to apologize to Eleanor for his less than stellar boyfriend-ing. He’s going to attempt to get their relationship back on track. That grand romantic gesture, of course, involves a whole mess of flowers, which is where Harry comes in. The way his heart seized up when Louis first started to explain what he wanted to hire Harry for; he thought for sure Louis was about to say he was planning a proposal, or even worse, needed a florist for their wedding. Harry was about to keel over then and there. Sent to another dimension by Ellen fucking Degeneres, only to die of a broken heart on day one. It would be quite an elaborate assassination attempt, if that was in fact Ellen’s angle. But Harry survived, thankfully, only to hear Louis ramble on about what his girlfriend meant to him, how she had been with him since the start of his career, how she’d stood by him through difficult times, and how she deserved to be appreciated. There was no mention of a proposal, though, Harry was glad of that. Louis simply wanted to welcome her home (to _their_ house, that one hurt) with a house full of flowers and a promise of…something. Harry had started to block things out at that point in the conversation. Whatever Louis was promising, Harry knew he didn’t like it.

Harry agreed to come up with some design ideas and Louis left his contact information. Eleanor isn’t expected home for a week, so Harry has a little time to figure out how the fuck he’s going to handle this situation.

When the sun has gone down and the clock approaches the closing time posted in the shop window, Harry’s stomach begins to grumble. He casually asks Mason what his plans are for dinner. To say Mason looks confused is an understatement. He stammers a bit and mutters something about needing to go straight home to let his dog out. Harry is getting the feeling that the two of them are not so much friends in this dimension, but exclusively co-workers. Or, more accurately, that Mason is the employee and Harry is the boss. Harry keeps getting the feeling that Mason is placating him. That if Harry were not his employer, Mason might have a few things to say about Harry’s behavior. It makes Harry sad. His Mason works for him, it’s true, but Harry thinks their relationship is more than just business. He’s always tried so hard to take care of the people who are hired to be with him and to treat them all as equals. They’re all on the same team, Harry’s just the face of it all. He can’t believe that this Harry (Bizarro Harry, as he’s begun to think of him) is any different.

At closing time, he waits until Mason heads home, figures out how to shut off all the lights and lock up the shop, then trudges up the stairs to the flat. Boxy trots along next to him before bounding up to wait patiently on the doormat.

“Looks like it’s just you and me tonight, Boxy. Let’s get ourselves some dinner.”

***

“How have I been living?” Harry says incredulously as he peers into the near empty fridge. “There is fuck all in this entire kitchen.”

Boxy rubs her cheek against Harry’s calf, then winds her way between his legs. He picks her up and holds her with one arm as he does one last fruitless search through the empty cupboards.

“At least there’s plenty of cat food. It’s good to know that Bizarro Harry is taking care of you, even if he can’t take care of himself.” Harry puts her down on the worktop in front of a full bowl of food. “I guess I’m popping out to the shops then, Boxy. I’ll be back soon, as long as I can find my way back.”

The cat lifts her head and gives Harry an unimpressed look, chewing a mouthful of kibble.

“Kidding! I’ll be fine. Have my phone, don’t I?”

She swallows, blinks, then returns to her bowl.

“Okay, well…I’ll er, be back!” he says as he puts on a coat and steps out of the flat. He’s found some canvas shopping bags under the sink (he’s pleased with Bizarro Harry for that) and located a Tesco’s on his phone that shouldn’t be too far a walk. God knows he can stand a walk to clear his head and get some things straight.

What he needs is a plan, a plan to get out of here, to figure out how to undo whatever freaky spell Ellen cast on him. But perhaps more pressingly, a plan to survive while he’s here. Well, first steps taken, he thinks, giving himself a mental pat on the back as he wheels a trolley around the market. He’s pleased with his workday as well. For not having any clue in his real life how to put together a flower arrangement or ring up a sale, he somehow managed to do a decent job of it all. It’s a little creepy, actually.

He should probably figure out whom he spends his time with here. Clearly not Mason. He’ll need to do a bit of an exploratory investigation on his phone. Read through his text messages, see what’s on his personal calendar. Maybe he can figure out who might have recommended Harry and his shop to Louis.

Ugh, which brings him to the worst part of this whole situation. The thing that feels like it might be the hardest to survive and that will certainly require the most painstakingly planned plan of all plans ever planned: Louis. Louis and Eleanor. Ugh again. Ugh squared. Ugh times infinity. There’s no getting out of it now, Harry agreed to the job. He’s never been able to say no to Louis. That seems to be true across dimensions. It also seemed foolish to not latch onto the fact that this Louis knows someone that this Harry knows. Figuring out how Harry fits into this world feels like following a trail of breadcrumbs, but each crumb is spaced a mile from the one before. He would be a fool to turn away a lead like that.

Beyond the actual flower-providing aspect of the Louis situation, Harry is at a loss for how to proceed. Should he just be professional? Do the job, make some casual conversation and try to figure out who their mutual acquaintance is? That seems like the smart thing to do. The mature thing to do. Harry’s not sure if he’s either smart or mature, though, because every bit of him is yearning to get involved. To get in that house. To figure out how serious Louis and Eleanor are about each other. To mess things up.

He knows this isn’t his Louis, but when Harry saw _this_ Louis standing in front of him, he couldn’t help but feel the same pull of attraction that he feels every time he sees _his_ Louis again after a prolonged separation. He acknowledges the fact that he doesn’t actually _know_ this Louis. The attraction he felt was based purely on looks, plus everything Harry knows about his Louis, projected onto this one. He can’t be faulted for that, though. And besides, can they really be that different, way deep down? The self-destructive part of Harry hopes not. There’s a reason they keep coming back to each other, even after all of the shit they’ve been through, with the band, with girlfriends, with “girlfriends.” Even though Louis can’t bring himself to come out to the world. Even though that fact is slowly killing Harry. Even though Harry has never been able to tell Louis as much. Despite all of that, they can’t help but return to each other. They love each other. Well, Harry loves Louis. He supposes he can only speak for himself with any certainty. As he fills his trolley with bananas and spinach and blocks of tofu he acknowledges what seems to be ultimately true across dimensions. Harry will always be drawn to Louis and there’s nothing he can do about it.

So what does he do? He can’t pursue Louis. Despite the fact that Harry can’t help but feel the same for this Louis as he does for the one he left behind, he’s sure there’s no chance of those feelings ever going both ways. He half-heartedly laughs to himself, thinking _neither does this Louis go both ways._ Shit. He knows he’s really in a state when even dopey wordplay doesn’t snap him out of it.

There doesn’t seem to be any way around it. Harry got himself into this mess by being dishonest. It wouldn’t be wise to venture down a new, unexplored path of dishonesty in this dimension. Pursuing Louis, looking for cracks in his relationship with Eleanor, using whatever insider knowledge Harry has that might transfer between dimensions to sabotage said relationship and welcome this Louis into florist Harry’s open, thorn-scratched arms is definitely, _definitely_ dishonest. There’s nothing to be done but follow through with the job, try to figure out whom else Harry knows in this world, and find a way to get out of here. After all, he won’t need this Louis to leave Eleanor for him if Harry can get back to his own life and the Louis that’s waiting for him there, right? Never mind that that Louis is waiting to dump his ass. Harry almost forgot that fun fact. Best not to think about that right now. Save the problems of other dimensions for when he’s actually in that dimension.

He trudges back the way he came, lugging a couple totes full of produce and coffee and everything else Harry normally stocks in his kitchen. He passes by a fish and chip shop just as someone leaves, and the smell that wafts out the open door reminds him how hungry he was when he set out on this journey, over an hour ago. He picks up the pace to get himself back to the flat and fed before his stomach starts growling audibly and scaring passersby.

“Oi, Hazza!” someone calls after him.

Harry turns slowly, not wanting to be obvious in case he’s not the Hazza in question.

Sure enough, though, he turns back to see a middle-aged man standing in front of the chip shop, waving to Harry and beckoning him over.

“You didn’t come in tonight, I was getting worried!” the man says as Harry walks back to the shop.

“I…what?” Harry stammers.

“I set aside your order, but that was an hour ago. I’ll make you a new portion. Come on in, be just a mo.” The man opens the door and goes into the shop. “I saw you walking by, you looked like you really had your head in the clouds, there. Hope everything’s going well for you today.”

“Oh—I did…I mean, I was—” Harry follows him into the shop but can’t get his brain to catch up and think of anything useful to say.

“There you go, lad.” The man hands Harry a warm paper-wrapped bundle, then seems to notice Harry’s bags of groceries for the first time. “What’s all that then? Is Harry Styles actually going to do a bit of cooking at home?” The man is exaggeratedly taken aback. Harry looks to the bags hanging from either shoulder, getting a bit heavy, if he’s honest.

“Er, yes? Was planning on it?”

“Well good on you, Haz. I can’t say I won’t miss seeing you every night if you start cooking for yourself, but even I don’t eat all this every single day. It’s not good for you! Glad to see you take better care of yourself. Thinking you’ll make a habit out of it, then?”

“I—well, yes. I suppose so,” Harry says. Has he really been eating fried fish for dinner every night? He has been feeling a little sluggish today. He’d chalked it up to the after effects of inter-dimensional travel, but perhaps Bizarro Harry has just been doing a shit job of taking care of himself.

“Happy for you, lad,” the man said. “Hope we’ll still see you in here every so often!”

Harry smiles. He’s glad to meet someone here who’s just as glad to see him.

“I’ll be sure to!” he calls as he steps back out to the pavement. What a nice man. Harry wishes he could ask his name without sounding like a nutter.

Back at the flat, Harry stocks the refrigerator and eats the fish and chips. No sense letting it go to waste. In his real life it’s been so long since Harry’s eaten at a chippy, partially because he’s meant to be eating “healthfully” but also because it’s been so long since he spent any real time in London. As weird as it feels to admit it, there’s something nice about being here now, even if he’s completely alone in a stranger’s flat in Hackney and not home with his family or Louis.

Boxy stalks across the table to Harry and rubs her head against his knuckles.

“You’re right, Boxy girl. I’m not alone.” He gives her a scratch behind the ears before returning to his dinner.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wheeeeee! It's a pandemic. Isn't this fun. Unfortunately, I fall in the category of people who have less time to themselves while isolating, not more. But it seems a shame to let this fic wither when cute boys rediscovering their love for each other in alternate dimensions is just what the world needs right now. So I will do my best!
> 
> As always, thank you to my wonderful friend and beta maevewren for all of her help!

The following week churns along in an unsettling tangle of brainstorming ways to get home and simultaneously settling into this new life Harry has found himself in. His thoughts are constantly at odds with themselves. He needs a plan to get back to the real world, but he also wants to get along here, slot into Bizarro Harry’s world, avoid detection by everyone here. It won’t do for him to burn the flower shop down and find himself living on the street, lost in an alternate dimension. He’s been on a fact-finding mission all week, digging deep into his phone, trying to piece together the life he’s meant to be living here, as well as stumbling along through the ins and outs of owning a flower shop. He’s quite pleased with himself for holding his own at work, learning the schedule, clumsily putting together passable arrangements. The alarmed looks from Mason are getting fewer and farther between, Harry would swear to it.

It’s a lot to deal with. He’s putting so much thought and energy into doing a job that’s not really his, learning how to live a _life_ that’s not his, when all he really wants is to get out of here. But the fact of the matter is, even if Harry could devote all of his time and energy to finding a way home, he’s at a complete loss as to where to start. Getting his bearings seems like the best he can do right now.

Harry has spent quite a lot of time with his phone in the past week. It’s the greatest source of information he has here. From the start, he made the decision that he would try to avoid taking calls and responding to texts or emails whenever possible, at least until he had a better handle on who he was meant to be and how Bizarro Harry might respond. This decision was disturbingly unnecessary, as practically no one has tried to contact him. There was one call from his mum, she left a message about Christmas plans, a few telemarketers phoned, whom Harry wouldn’t have picked up for in the first place, and a text from a coffee shop down the street offering him a 10% off deal as an early Christmas present. That’s it. In Harry’s real life, his phone is constantly buzzing off the table, for ongoing lengthy conversations, trading jokes, or arguing longstanding disagreements with friends all over the world. He’s never in one place for very long but he brings his friends with him wherever he goes. Bizarro Harry seems to stay put but never talk to anyone.

It’s more than the lack of incoming calls and messages. Scrolling through the short contact list on the phone reveals there aren’t many people likely to call. Same goes for call history and past text messages. There’s just not a lot there. His mum again, messages with her few and far between, and quite joyless, Harry notices. Same goes for his conversations with his sister, Gemma. He’s wished her a happy birthday recently, but before that it’s mostly logistical planning for when they’re going to visit their mum, and the odd holiday greeting, always initiated by Gemma.

There’s an ongoing thread with Mason, entirely work related. There’s a group text that seems to be made up of his neighbors, in which Harry appears to have remained entirely silent. An automatic payment reminder for his monthly phone bill. It’s too depressing. Harry’s learned nothing from his research aside from Bizarro Harry must be a sad and lonely sod. Ugh. And he’s still got no clue who might have recommended him to Louis.

On Wednesday evening, after closing up shop and then preparing and eating a sad dinner for one under the watchful eye of Boxy, Harry’s phone buzzes. He starts up out of his chair, tipping it over backwards and eyeing the phone warily. Mason never texts after hours. His mum prefers to call and there’s no holiday to warrant a greeting from Gemma. He approaches the phone with caution.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” It’s a text from a gym.

_Hiya HARRY STYLES, you haven’t been to the gym in a while. We miss you! Come by soon and get £1 off a post workout green juice!_

Harry had noticed a gym membership card in Bizarro Harry’s wallet but hadn’t given it much consideration. A workout felt far down on his list of current priorities. Not to mention the fact that he’s wary of going anywhere the other Harry went regularly for fear of running into people he _should_ know but for obvious reasons does not know from Adam. He wonders what the gym’s idea of “a while” is. Maybe he’s not such a regular that he would be friendly with anyone there? This Harry doesn’t seem to be very social in any other aspects of his life, why would the gym be any different? A good workout actually sounds quite nice. Harry goes to the bedroom to dig around for something appropriate to wear.

He grabs a set of earbuds out of the bowl by the front door, makes sure he has the membership card in his wallet and finds the gym’s address on his phone.

“Back in a bit, Boxy!” He feels a bit foolish always telling the cat his comings and goings, but honestly, she’s all he’s got for company at this point and he has a feeling Bizarro Harry does the same.

The gym is your bog standard type of place, with hideous fluorescent lighting and an ever-present aroma of feet, but Harry didn’t expect any different. He wears his hood up and keeps his eyes down, just in case there’s anyone he’s meant to know, but the place is nearly empty. Just to be on the safe side, Harry selects a treadmill in the corner. He starts the thing up, gets a good pace going, then remembers his earbuds. Scrolling through the music on his phone while doing his best to stay upright is a challenge. He’s never been the most graceful. He spots a playlist entitled _WORKOUT MIX_ and selects it quickly, tucking the phone back into his pocket, grateful to have completed the task without tripping over his own feet.

The opening strains of an all too familiar song fill his ears.

_You’re insecure, don’t know what for…_

It’s more than his equilibrium can handle. His right foot comes up behind his left calf and the next thing Harry knows, he’s fallen face first on the belt of the treadmill and is flung backwards off of the thing. The earbuds are pulled out of his ears but he can still hear the tinny melody. Of course. Yet another lie he told Ellen. What did he expect?

The woman who was manning the reception desk when he arrived rushes over.

“Oh my god, are you ok, sir?” She crouches next to Harry, her hands hovering as if she wants to help but isn’t sure if she should touch him.

“Yep...yeah,” Harry groans as he tries to sit upright. “‘M fine. Just...I’m fine. Really.”

“I think you banged your head there.” She timidly reaches for Harry’s forehead.

“It’s fine! I’m fine. I’m just…I’m totally fine.”

The woman sits back on her heels, unsure if he’stelling the truth, clearly wishing to return to her post at the desk. She tilts her head, noticing the music still piping out of the earbuds.

“Ha!” she laughs. “This was like my favorite song in year six!”

“You don’t say.” How strange to be talking about his music and his band with someone who doesn’t know who he is because it’s not really his music or band anymore.

Harry waves off help from the woman as he stumbles to his feet. He resets the treadmill to a slower pace and settles for walking while he scrolls through the workout playlist, examining the massive collection of One Direction Bizarro Harry seems to have. It’s weird. It’s all here. All of their music. Even the songs that Harry himself wrote. Except, clearly _he_ didn’t write them. He skips from track to track, listening for differences and they’re there—Zayn singing Harry’s solos here, Liam there, songs he helped write in his dimension just strangely _off_. Like they’re all weird knock-offs of the music Harry remembers writing: close enough to the original to be recognizable, but different enough that listening to them makes Harry feel like he’s either listening to the Kidz Bop interpretation, tweaked enough to avoid legal action, or having a stroke.

Listening to it all, though, leaves Harry with an ache of nostalgia. He’s suddenly missing that time in his life in a way he hasn’t ever really, not since it all ended. There’s the Louis element, for sure, a longing for the days when the two of them were constantly together with zero scrutiny from the rest of the world because of course they would be together; they were in a band. But more than that, there’s the comfort of a time when he was doing what he loves, making music, a thing sorely missing from Bizarro Harry’s somber existence. Not only that, he was doing it with his friends. His best friends. At the time, at least. They’ve drifted apart in the years since. And now, in this strange new world he finds himself in, he doesn’t even have the shared experience of having made this music with the boys. It’s not his band anymore. It’s not his music. Harry feels the loss, worrying the edges of the hole it leaves in his heart as he plods along on the treadmill to songs that he doesn’t quite remember.

***

Early Saturday morning, Harry loads the shop van and heads off to Louis’s house. Louis gave him the address, of course, but Harry could find his way with his eyes closed. He thinks he acted very cool and casual when he saw the address written down and not at all like he recognized it, like he’d been to that house, practically lived at that house, even. That, so many times in the years Louis’s owned it, coming back to that house and, more importantly, the man who lived there, had felt like coming home. Not every time. Sometimes going to Louis’s house had filled Harry with dread, unsure of where they happened to be in the constant ebb and flow of their relationship. Sometimes leaving that house was a relief, one Harry would never admit to Louis, but relief nonetheless, ushering in the freedom he felt moving about in the world, autonomous, without Louis, and while Harry was not completely out, at least when he and Louis were apart he was not constantly pretending, something that was always necessary when the two were together. He’s not sure that he succeeded in his nonchalance, but Louis didn’t seem to notice either way. The whole thing is just so fucking weird.

Harry spends the drive trying to convince himself that what he’s doing is okay and not in any way creepy and intrusive. He feels like he’s got this strange insider knowledge about Louis and Eleanor, like he’s this creeper coming into their home under false pretenses, like he’s casing the joint, but the joint is their relationship, not their house. Whatever. Surely acknowledging that this is kind of creepy means his intentions aren’t to be questioned, right? Fuck. Who even knows. _He_ doesn’t know, that’s for sure. What even are his intentions?

He arrives at the house, pulls to a stop in front of the electric gate. This is strange for sure, not having the access code, having to be buzzed in. Oh shit, what if he does know the access code? He certainly remembers the code for _his_ Louis’s gate. He absolutely cannot try it to see if it’s the same.

“Yeah?” Louis’s voice blares out of the call box.

“Oh! Er—it’s me? I mean, it’s Harry? I mean, it’s the florist. I’m the florist, with your delivery.” Harry mumbles and flusters, tripping over his words. He didn’t expect Louis to be on the other end of the buzzer. He assumed there’d be an assistant or somebody there at the house to facilitate the entire procedure. Harry half expected to not even see Louis, that he would just sweep in after the fact to present Eleanor with the surprise of a house overrun by flowers. But he’s actually here. Oh god, this is going to be awful.

“Yup, come on through.” The gates slowly part in front of Harry’s van. He pulls forward and parks by the house, the gates closing behind him, sealing him in, ensuring there will be absolutely no chance of a speedy getaway. Fuck.

Harry takes a deep breath. He can stay here for just a moment, surely, safe in the quiet of the parked van, trying to center himself, to prepare for an afternoon spent in the general vicinity of his on-again off-again boyfriend who doesn’t even know he exists. Double fuck.

“Alright, mate?” Out of nowhere, Louis appears in the driver’s side window.

“ _Gah!_ ” Harry yells. So much for centering. “Shit, you scared me.”

“Sorry about that, mate, you were just taking a while, wanted to see if you needed a hand or something.”

“No!” Shit, that sounded rude. “No, I mean, thanks though. Was just, er, returning a text. Don’t want to text and drive, you know…ha ha, safety first!” Harry jabs an index finger skyward, adding far too much emphasis and presenting himself as some sort of safety nut.

“Yeah, sure lad. Good on you.” Louis looks confused by Harry’s fervor. “Well, if you really don’t need me I’ll just leave the door open and you can start unloading. I’ll show you around the house and point out the places we talked about.”

“Yup,” Harry nods, tight lipped. Here we go.

“So that’s the house. Well, the ground floor at least.” Louis leads Harry back into the foyer where Harry left all of his stuff, as well as the delivery.

“So you _don’t_ want to go upstairs? Do something in the bedroom?”

Louis furrows his brow, seemingly taken aback by the question. “Nah, I don’t think so. Keeping everything down here, that’ll have the biggest impact, don’t you think? Just filling the main floor? She’ll see it all right away.”

“I mean…” Harry hesitates. What is he _doing_? He feels compelled to advise Louis that he should absolutely fill their bedroom with flowers as a sexy and romantic gesture towards his girlfriend whom he supposedly loves enough to orchestrate all this for to get back in her good graces. But as he opens his mouth to say as much (albeit, somewhat more tactfully), he realizes that _no_ , he does not need to play any part in facilitating a sexy reunion/reinvigoration of the sexual bond between Louis and Eleanor. Forget Eleanor, between Louis and _anyone!_ He shuts his mouth and rethinks his approach.

“Yeah, you’re exactly right. Keeping it all down here will have a great impact. She’s going to love it.” Well shit. If lying is what got Harry here in the first place, he’s surely not headed down the path towards his own dimension by adding to the pile of lies. Might as well though. This seems to be what he does now. Lie.

“Right on, right on.” Louis seems oddly relieved at Harry’s assurance. He relaxes a bit, smiling and bobbing his head, pleased to be in agreement. Or, dare Harry even imagine, happy to keep his gesture out of the bedroom? That’s wishful thinking, surely.

Harry spends the next hour or so decorating the ground floor of the house, the foyer, the kitchen, the living room, all the places Eleanor will see first when she returns home later this evening. Despite the sheer torture of knowing that what he’s doing is intended to reinforce and strengthen the bond between Louis and his girlfriend, Harry’s oddly pleased with his work. Louis’s original idea was a bit vague, requesting a “flower explosion” that would feel like it filled the house. Louis knew nothing about what type of flowers he wanted and gave Harry free reign in that department, his only request being that the arrangements be “cool,” same for the colors and the styling, just “cool, you know, like those hipster photos I saw on your shop’s Instagram.” Harry had to try very hard to suppress a grin over that. This Louis sounded an awful lot like his Louis.

Harry’s selected a variety of large-scale flowers and grasses, most in a very muted color palette, save for the sunflowers. As much as his Louis hated to admit he even had a favorite flower, Harry knew he did: sunflowers. Harry had named a song after them, for fuck’s sake, a song about love and Louis and domesticity. The flower holds a special place in his heart. He can’t resist adding them to the mix. He puts together several semi-deconstructed arrangements and strategically places them around the rooms, working out from each arrangement with displays of loose flowers, petals, and leaves, on tabletops, the floor, forming pathways between rooms and hopefully giving the desired effect of “hipster flower explosion.” Harry’s quite proud of himself.

Louis does not leave his side the entire time. Harry imagined Louis would show him the lay of the land, then make himself scarce, leaving Harry to do his work in peace. But no, Louis has stuck around, eyes on Harry, asking questions now and then, absolutely inane questions that Harry can’t imagine Louis actually cares to know the answers to, like, “what sort of flower is this weird spiky thing?” and “how long did it take you to drive over here today?” Harry may not know this Louis, but he _knows Louis._ Louis doesn’t give a shit about traffic. Is he trying to make conversation? Why? As much as Harry would love to lean into it and chat Louis up, he’s honestly too afraid, no idea what he would be aiming to get out of a nice chat with this Louis. He’s also afraid that he’d let slip some bit of information that he, Harry, shouldn’t be privy to. It’s nice though, just being near Louis like this. It’s been a long time since they’ve spent much time in each other’s presence. Not alone time. Well, not alone time in which they were both fully clothed. Too often their interludes amounted to little more than drunk and manic fucking when they happened to be in the same city, before parting ways to attend different parties or hop on a plane. Long gone were the soft, domestic mornings spent drinking tea in bed and trading chaste kisses despite morning breath. Even the fucking, though. Shit, it’s been way too long. Spending this time with Louis, Harry physically feels how much he’s missed him. This may not be the Louis he loves, but he’s damn near a close enough facsimile, close enough to really drive home for Harry that he does love Louis. It was easy to ignore that fact when they were always so busy and always apart. But now, standing in this kitchen, this pseudo-Louis attempting to make awkward conversation all afternoon, the longing both tugs at Harry’s gut and makes him feel all warm and dreamy, reminding him of what he’s been missing, while simultaneously letting him marinate in all these good Louis vibes.

“I like the sunflowers.” There it is. The comment Harry won’t admit he was hoping to hear. His hands falter and he drops the stem he was about to place. Louis doesn’t notice. He’s across the room, running a finger over the bright yellow petals of one of the larger sunflowers, not looking at Harry at all.

“Oh, yeah!” Harry fumbles for a response. _Be cool_ , he chastises himself. _Everyone likes sunflowers, you don’t have to be weird about it_. “I, er…thought you might.” That was decidedly _not_ cool.

Louis looks up with a raised eyebrow. “Did you?” He’s wearing that little teasing smirk that Harry knows all too well. “Had me pegged as a sunflower lover, did you?”

“Oh, no,” Harry stutters. “I just mean—well, everybody likes sunflowers, so of course you’d like them.”

“Ah, I see how it is. I’ve just got basic, boring taste?”

“No! That’s not what I—” Well shit. Harry knows Louis’s teasing but he’s not sure how to respond. If Harry were himself and Louis was _him_ self, he’d just tell Louis to fuck off and then kiss him to show he wasn’t mad about it. That strategy doesn’t seem appropriate right now. What do other people do when Louis teases them? God knows he does it constantly. You’d think Harry would have paid attention a little bit more.

“Relax, mate. I’m fucking with you.”

Harry exhales a shaky laugh. “Oh sure, I know.”

“Basic or not, I think they are my favorite flower, though. Not sure I should admit that. Is it manly to have a favorite flower?”

“Of course it is!” Harry scoffs. “It’s the manliest. To appreciate beautiful things and not be afraid to talk about it? If that’s not manly then I don’t think I care to _be_ manly at all.”

Louis is quiet for a moment, a soft look on his face as he gives Harry an appraising look.

“You’re absolutely right,” he says, firmly, nodding at Harry. “Look at you; you _are_ manly as all get out and you own the whole fucking flower shop.”

Harry feels his cheeks flush under Louis’s approving gaze. He quickly turns back to the flowers.

“You must like them as well, then?”

“What’s that?” Harry busies himself with the arrangement in front of him and keeps his eyes on the flowers.

“Sunflowers,” Louis says. “You named your shop after them, after all. It’s why I had a good feeling about you, erm, your shop, that is. When I heard the name.”

“That’s right…” Harry tries to act nonchalant. “You never mentioned who recommended us.”

“Thought it was obvious!” Louis sounds incredulous. “Seeing as you’re a fan and all. You did know who I was when I came into the shop, didn’t you? Who else would it be?”

Harry freezes, his shoulders tense and pulled all the way up to his ears. Shit. He’s missing something. He crosses his arms in front of his chest and turns towards Louis, awkwardly laughing and shaking his head, as if he’s realized his mistake.

“Oh right, _duh._ Not too quick on the uptake, am I?” He smacks his forehead and rolls his eyes at his stupidity. _Say something, Louis. Don’t leave me hanging._

“Don’t be too hard on yourself there, mate. Zayn mentioned you hadn’t talked in a while. Don’t worry, I won’t tell him that you’ve completely forgotten about him.”

_Zayn._ “No, no! Of course I haven’t forgotten about him. I just…” Really? _Zayn?_ How on earth does Bizarro Harry know Zayn Malik, former member of the most popular boy band on the planet? And they really must not have talked for a long while. Harry didn’t see any texts from him.

He’s racking his brain for some way to explain his oversight when Louis pulls his phone out and frowns at the screen.

“For fuck’s sake.” He brings a hand to his forehead and squeezes his temples, then drops his hands and looks around the room at all of the work Harry’s done.

“Everything okay?” Harry asks cautiously. Louis has been silent for a full minute, just shaking his head and huffing little puffs of air out of his nose.

“Yeah, mate. Sorry.” He snaps out of it with a wry laugh. “Erm, just got a text from my girlfriend. She’s not coming back tonight.”

“Oh.” Harry is unsure how to respond to this information. “Well, the arrangements will look good for at least a week. The bits on the floor will get a bit dried out, but we can put the flowers in water and I can come back to—”

“No, you don’t have to,” Louis looks dejected. “She’s not sure when she’ll be back.”

Harry doesn’t respond. What can he say?

“Well, I…” he finally says, haltingly. “Do you want me to get this out of here?” If Harry’s completely honest with himself, he’s not mad that his handiwork won’t be playing a role in Louis and Eleanor’s romantic reunion, not tonight at least. But his heart goes out to Louis. Even if this isn’t his Louis, even if he’s sad about someone other than Harry, it hurts to see him in pain. Harry actively suppresses the urge to wrap his arms around Louis. Cuddling doesn’t typically fall under the purview of one’s florist, though.

“No, mate. You can just leave it all. You’ve worked so hard on it. It’s not your fault I’m not enough of a draw to get my girlfriend home to enjoy it.” Louis looks down and gives a small, dejected laugh.

Without giving much thought to what he’s doing, Harry finds his hand reaching out towards Louis and hovering in the air near his shoulder and bicep, unsure if it should make a landing. Fuck. This man needs to be comforted! Harry can’t not at least _try_ to console him. This is Louis!

His hand finally drops onto Louis’s shoulder. Harry gives him a sort of squeeze and shake. “You’re just…be oh…’s gonna…just fine…” he mutters something unintelligible and surely not at all comforting. Louis gives him a skeptical look, eyebrow raised, but he doesn’t shrink away from Harry’s touch.

“Thanks for that, mate,” Louis teases. “Wise words!” He reaches up and pats Harry’s hand, still on his shoulder, as he chuckles. He leaves it there, his palm warm on Harry’s fingers. It’s all Harry can do to give a nervous laugh. Louis holds his gaze for a beat longer, not holding Harry’s hand in place but not removing his own. Surely it would be more awkward for Harry to pull his away than to just leave it there and enjoy this small touch for a moment longer?

“Anyways,” Louis says as he finally draws away. “Really sorry about this, Harry.” He shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Don’t worry about it, it’s fine.” Harry starts to gather up his things. “I’m sorry. I hope it all works out. I’m sure it will.” Lie. The first part at least.

“Yeah, not so sure myself, but,” Louis’s voice is unsteady. “What are you gonna do?”

If only Harry had an answer to that, they’d both be in better shape.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: if you read previous chapters before 4/16/20 you missed a bit that I just added in chapter 2 about Harry not having any tattoos anymore. He misses them! Poor baby.
> 
> Big giant thank you to my wonderful friend and beta maevewren for all of her help!
> 
> And thanks to [TheMagicWord](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMagicWord/pseuds/TheMagicWord) for being my lone British friend and resource.

So. One mystery solved. Does this change anything?

Bizarro Harry is friends with Zayn Malik. Harry did not see that coming. He’d expected to feel a little more grounded once he’d answered some of the questions he has about who he’s meant to be and what sort of life he’s supposed to be living, but this answer just brings up more questions. How does he know Zayn? Why didn’t he see Zayn’s name in his phone? Were they even really friends or just casual acquaintances? Oh god, what if Bizarro Harry and Zayn _dated_? The Zayn Harry knew had never been into guys, but does that really have any bearing on the sexuality of this alternate Zayn? After all, Harry’s life here is a far cry from what he’s used to, so who really knows? After Louis got the text from Eleanor, saying she wasn’t coming home, Harry could hardly press Louis for any more information about Zayn. Not that he had a clue how he would do that without seeming suspicious. It was probably for the best that Louis got distracted and Harry was able to leave without having to explain why it wasn’t obvious to him that Zayn had been the one to recommend Harry’s shop to his bandmate.

Days after the job at Louis’s house, Harry is still turning over the few facts he’s gathered in his head, trying to decide what he should do next. Try as he might though, his mind keeps spinning right past any rational thought of a plan and directly towards Louis. Seeing him again felt good. Harry was comforted just by being in Louis’s presence, despite the bizarre nature of their encounters. Harry shouldn’t feel the same connection with this Louis as he does with his own. He doesn’t know this Louis, at least he doesn’t know if he knows this Louis. The similarities that Harry sees could all be figments of his imagination, or not go any deeper than what Harry has observed thus far. More importantly, though, this Louis definitely doesn’t know Harry and this Louis definitely has a girlfriend that he seems committed to making happy. Harry knows all of this, but it doesn’t change the fact that being in the same room as Louis was as close to feeling like “home” as Harry has felt this entire time. And when Louis looked at him? It was like there was something there, something Louis could sense and was searching for, something he couldn’t quite grasp, but something Harry was so familiar with it felt like a part of himself. Or maybe not. Maybe it was all in Harry’s head. Wishful thinking. Reaching out for something familiar in this sea of what-the-fuck.

One thing he’s able to do despite his lack of focus is mindlessly scroll through One Direction’s corner of social media. Hoo boy, is that ever a trip. So much of it is not any different from what Harry would expect to find. Niall playing golf, Liam’s thirst traps, Louis’s moody selfies which seldom feature Eleanor. No Harry, of course, but that wouldn’t be any different no matter the dimension. In the real world Harry studiously averts his eyes from all of the boys on Twitter and Instagram and lets his team run his own accounts, for the sake of his sanity. Has done since his days in the band. It was just too messy and there was so much out there that he didn’t want to see. Looking at it now still feels kind of wrong, even though he isn’t a part of it. Seeing all of the boys’ followers and the endless comments on their posts, the speculation, the drooling, the inevitable trolls, the antis…Harry can picture it all in a universe where Harry is one of the band.

Aside from his personal distaste for social media, there’s another major problem with looking for info on social media. Zayn hasn’t tweeted in years and his Instagram is private. Any pics of him with the band or the other boys stopped when the band went on hiatus. Oh yeah, that seems to have happened here as well.

Harry’s own account is nothing but flower shop promotion, and for some reason he doesn’t follow Zayn. He’s hesitant to hit the request button. Surely if he’s not following Zayn, hasn’t talked to Zayn in who knows how long, doesn’t even have Zayn’s number in his phone, there must be a good reason for it all. They must not be very close, or at least aren’t that close anymore. Harry waffles over fear of what Zayn will think seeing Harry’s request. But who is he kidding? This is Zayn Malik, one fifth, er, fourth of One Direction. What are the odds he’ll even see Harry’s request? Harry might as well take a shot. He hits the button.

Harry puts his phone face down on the coffee table. He doesn’t want to obsess over Instagram, waiting for Zayn to maybe, possibly accept his request. But as soon as he flops back on the couch, Boxy leaping up to knead his chest, the phone chirps. Shit. That can’t be Zayn already, can it?

It’s not.

_Gemma: Still coming for dinner tonight? Bring wine plz_

“Shit, Boxy,” he says, scratching the cat behind the ears. “I think I have to go see my sister.”

***

“My darling baby brother!” Gemma opens her front door and spreads her arms wide.

“Hi Gems,” Harry barely chokes out as he sinks into her embrace, just in time to hide the tears that spring up in his eyes. “I brought wine.” His voice is muffled as he speaks into her shoulder. God, what a relief it is to see family. He hadn’t attempted a visit before now out of fear that Gemma would know something was off. But this is worth the risk. Someone familiar, someone who knows him in the same capacity he’s used to. His relationship with Gemma might not be exactly the same here but she’s still his sister.

“You’ve got a real death grip on me there, Haz.” Gemma thunks a hand on Harry’s back a few times, grunting a bit, supporting his weight.

“Sorry. Sorry…” Harry straightens up, surreptitiously swiping at his eyes before she can get a good look at his face. “I brought wine.” He proffers the bottle of rosé he picked up on the way over.

“Yeah, you said that,” Gemma says, squinting at him with suspicion, but not unkindly. “You okay there, Harry? Everything good at the shop?” She, thankfully, turns as she speaks, leading the way into her flat.

“Yes, of course…” His voice cracks as he says it. He’s clearly not okay.

“Is that Harold?” a voice calls from the kitchen. Gemma’s boyfriend Michal pops his head out of the doorway. Harry releases a huge sigh of relief that he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding in. He’s been so caught up figuring out his own life, he hadn’t even considered in which ways things might be different for his loved ones. He’s so glad to see Michal is still in the picture.

“It is!” Gemma gives Michal a kiss as she steps past him into the kitchen. “The prodigal brother has returned.”

“Hey! I’m not bad as all that!” Harry objects as he gives Michal a bigger hug than he would usually. He’s just so glad to see another familiar face, one that’s also glad to see him.

“Oof—missed you too, Harry,” Michal grunts and tries to extricate himself from Harry’s grasp.

“Has it really been that long?” Harry asks.

“What’s wrong with you Harry? Yes, it’s been forever since we’ve seen you!” Gemma looks at him incredulously as she digs in a drawer before pulling out a corkscrew. “You’ve been cancelling and making flimsy excuses for months, avoiding my calls as well. Couldn’t even get you to come by for my birthday! What’s keeping you so busy that you don’t even remember you’re avoiding us?”

“I’m not!” Harry protests. “I’d never, Gems…I love you guys.” Harry watches as Gemma and Michal exchange confused expressions across the kitchen. “I, er…I’m sorry, I guess work’s been busy.” Harry realizes he needs to backpedal for whatever Bizarro Harry has been up to. If Gemma says he’s been avoiding her, well, he can’t just deny it. He’ll just do what he can to rectify their relationship and hope there’s not a good reason for him to have been keeping to himself. All signs point to this Harry having been ridiculously antisocial. All he can do right now is smooth things over so that hopefully Harry will be invited back soon. God knows he can use a little more socializing.

“It’s…it’s fine, Haz.” Gemma sets the wine bottle down and pats Harry’s arm. She still looks a tad bit befuddled. “You seem…”

 _Oh god, please don’t say different, please don’t say different,_ Harry thinks to himself. He just wants to spend a nice evening with his sister and not have to spend the entire time stressed about pretending to be someone he’s not.

“Hungry!” Michal chimes in. “You look hungry, Harold. And thirsty. Stop distracting your sister from opening the wine, will you?” Michal clamps a hand on Harry’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze, a look of concern in his eyes. He always has been insightful. Clearly he can see there’s something different about Harry, and even clearer that Harry doesn’t want to talk about it.

Gemma rolls her eyes, but turns back to the wine and provides everyone with a glass.

“To you, baby brother. We’ve missed you.” She holds up her glass and waits for Harry to do the same.

“I swear to god, Gemma, I couldn’t be happier to be here right now.” He taps his glass against Gemma’s, then Michal’s.

Gemma narrows her gaze and purses her lips. Harry feels like she’s looking right through him, and his bullshit. Despite whatever other half-truths he’s forced to dole out tonight, he actually means it. He’s so glad to be here with the two of them.

“I actually believe you,” Gemma says, finally, taking a sip of her wine.

Dinner is wonderful. The company is wonderful. Harry realizes that even in his regular life, it’s been ages since he’s spent a quiet evening with his sister and Michal. He honestly can’t even remember the last time. As nice as it is to see a familiar face or two after the fucked-up week he’s had, he’s needed this for much longer than that.

Harry is delighted to find that not only is Michal still in Gemma’s life, but their cat, Olivia, is here as well. After the humans have finished eating but are lingering at the table over the dregs of a second bottle of wine, she ventures into the room, in search of a meal of her own. Harry scoops her up into his arms.

“Olivia, darling!” Harry rubs a cheek against the top of her head, suddenly missing Boxy, his sole companion for the past week.

“I have a cat, you know,” he says, forgetting himself. Gemma and Michal look at him blankly before exchanging yet another what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-him expression, the number of which Harry has completely lost track at this point.

“Yeah, we’re well aware, Haz. We were there when you adopted her.”

“Oh, haha,” Harry realizes his mistake. “No, I, er…I was telling Olivia.”

“Sure, Harry.” Gemma reaches out to take the cat from him, giving him a joking look as if she doesn’t quite trust him to hold Olivia any longer.

“Holy shit, Gem, your wrist!” Gemma’s sleeve slides back as she reaches for the cat, revealing a delicate tattoo of four black dots in a row, which Harry is well aware is morse code for the letter “H.”

“What?” She draws her hand back, confused.

“Your tattoo! You’ve got it!” Harry is too excited by the discovery to try to censure his enthusiasm. It’s the exact same tattoo that his Gemma got years ago. An “H” in morse code, for Harry. In the real world, Harry had gotten a tattoo for her at the same time, and it wasn’t the only one, either. He feels the pang of longing for his missing tattoos. It’s not just the look of them that’s been erased. There was meaning and sentimentality, memories wrapped up in every one. All of that’s gone now.

“Of course I’ve got it, Harry. What did you think, I would have it removed just because you’ve been a dick for the last few months? Though I’ll never stop being salty about you chickening out and not getting one for me like you promised.”

“I didn’t…” Harry doesn’t know how to respond. What can he say to excuse Bizarro Harry’s behavior? Nothing, that’s what. He’s quickly learning the most he can do is apologize.

“I’m sorry, Gems. I’ve actually…well, I’ve been really missing, er—wishing I had tattoos lately. I can’t believe I’m almost 26 and I don’t have any.”

“They’re not for everybody, Haz,” Michal says. “You’ve never struck me as the type, anyway. They can be a bit flashy, don’t you think? You’re not a flashy kind of guy. Nothing wrong with that.”

Harry blinks and gives a slight nod, his brow furrowing. Is he really not the kind of guy who would be into tattoos? How can he be so different here?

“Ha…I guess you’re right.” Does he go along with the status quo? Harry doesn’t know if he can take living this life much longer if he has to rein himself in to pass as bland and boring Bizarro Harry. “But, well…I’ve been feeling like I need a change lately. Maybe a tattoo or two is a good place to start?”

“Whoa there, Harold! Suddenly we’re talking about _multiple_ tattoos? Who are you and what have you done with my brother?”

Harry can feel his cheeks flush. _Just laugh it off,_ he tells himself. _She’ll never guess the truth._

“Well,” he gives a chuckle that hopefully doesn’t sound too forced. “I owe _you_ a tattoo, Gems. That’s one, and then, I don’t know…I can’t believe I’ve made it this far without getting something to, like, remember a trip or for someone I’m dating!”

“Harry!” Gemma and Michal exchange a bemused look. “First of all, you don’t go on trips and second, who on Earth have you been dating? Have you been keeping someone from us?”

“No, of course not!” Harry stammers. “I’m not seeing anyone now, but —I’ve dated! Surely I’ve brought a guy around to meet you at least once. Haven’t I?” Oh god, can he really play this off as just having a poor memory? Gemma and Michal exchange another look but they’re no longer laughing.

“Harry,” Gemma says gently. “A guy? Are you saying…” She trails off but her eyebrows are raised, encouraging Harry to continue. Well shit, this is unexpected. He looks from Gemma to Michal, trying to get his bearings before he says anything further. Is it possible that he’s not out to his own sister?

Never in all of this time has Harry considered Bizarro Harry was still in the closet.

“I, er…well, yes.” Harry looks from Gemma to Michal. He can’t believe he’s coming out to his sister, _again_. He thought he was done with this years ago. Almost ten years ago, to be exact. “I’m gay.”

“Oh Haz!” Gemma’s eyes have gone all glassy. She pulls him into a hug. He feels a hitch in her breathing as she squeezes him tightly.

“I…I’m sorry I never told you sooner.”

“Don’t you dare apologize!” Gemma pulls back and swats at his arm, then immediately puts both hands over the spot where she’d hit him. “Oh god, now I’m sorry.”

They all laugh. Michal gives Harry’s shoulder a squeeze.

“I am, though. Sorry, I mean.” He puts a hand up when he sees Gemma about to object again. “I, er…” He chooses his words carefully. He wants to be sincere, have an honest conversation for once, staying true to himself while not belying Bizarro Harry’s past. “I don’t know why I waited so long. Maybe I was scared, I really can’t say. I’m just…well, I guess I’m apologizing to myself more than I am to you. I’ve— well, I think I’ve missed out on a lot. At least it seems like I have, don’t you think?”

“Oh Harry,” Gemma says. She looks like her heart has broken. “I can’t say if that’s true or not. I don’t want you to have any regrets. If you needed time to figure things out, there’s nothing wrong with that.” She looks to Michal and takes hold of his hand. “Is this…well, you’ve been so quiet, always keeping to yourself and I wondered if…but I don’t know. I guess I just came to the conclusion that you were happier on your own.”

Harry’s eyes widen and it’s all he can do to suppress an incredulous laugh. Never in a million years would he expect to be described as “quiet” or “keeping to himself.”

“No,” he finally says, definitively. “I wasn’t—I mean, I’m _not_ happier on my own. I don’t want to keep to myself. If I’m honest, I haven’t exactly been feeling like myself lately. I just didn’t know—I mean, I didn’t consider that I hadn’t—er, that we needed to talk about this.”

“Of course, Harry. God, it must feel like a weight has been lifted.”

As much as Harry appreciates the gravity with which Gemma has received this news, he can’t bring himself to meet her level of solemnity. A thought occurs to him.

“Did you know?” he asks with a sly smirk.

“What, did I know you’re gay?” Gemma asks.

“Yeah! You must have suspected something, right?”

“Not really…” Gemma looks thoughtful. “Like I said, you just kept to yourself. I just thought you weren’t interested in dating anyone.”

“I knew,” Michal interjects. He’s got a smug look on his face. “I’ve got you, man.” He holds up a hand, offering Harry a high five.

Harry laughs as they slap hands. Spending time with family, letting a bit of his real, honest-to-goodness, true self show for the evening, it all feels amazing.

“I’ll get your coat, Haz.” Michal ducks out of the room as Harry and Gemma say goodbye. They’ve spent far too long chatting and laughing but Harry thinks they both needed it.

“Oh, Gems, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Harry says as he moves towards the door, trying to make the following question sound as nonchalant as possible. “You know my friend Zayn? He’s a musician?”

“Zayn Malik.” She looks at him like he’s just said something unbelievably stupid. “Erm, yes Harry, I think I know your incredibly famous friend Zayn Malik. What, are you trying to brag or something?” Her eyes go wide. “Oh! Are you and he—”

“No! I mean—” Shit. They might have dated, right? Harry doesn’t know for sure. God, he hopes not. Zayn is fit and all, but, no, he’s not Harry’s type. “No. I told you, I’m not seeing anyone right now. I was just wondering if you had his number. I must have accidentally deleted it off my phone or something.”

“Do _I_ have Zayn Malik’s phone number.” If she thought he was being stupid before she’s acting like he’s completely brain dead now. “Me. Do I have _Zayn Malik’s_ phone number. _The_ Zayn Malik. Zayn Malik of One Direction. That Zayn Malik. Do I have _his_ number.”

“Okay, stupid question, forget I asked!” Harry laughs and tries to put a hand over Gemma’s mouth to stifle her teasing.

“What’s going on in that head of yours, Harry?” Gemma swats his hand away and giggles. “You know I’ve never even met the guy. Blasted band went on hiatus before you could even get us into a concert like you promised.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right.” Harry smacks his palm against his forehead. “I’m a knobhead, don’t mind me. I, er, couldn’t remember if you’d met him, er, well…before, I guess.”

“Well, I suppose I might have met him years ago, when you first did. I was at _The X-Factor_ auditions with you, after all.”

“X-Factor?” Harry is shocked.

“Yeah, that’s where you met Zayn, isn’t it? Kept in touch even though you were too shit to make it on the show?” Gemma says with a teasing grin and pokes Harry’s love handles a few times for emphasis.

“Right…” Bizarro Harry auditioned for _The X-Factor_? He really must have been shit. As far as Harry can tell, he doesn’t do any form of music anymore, even for fun. But the fact that he met Zayn there, that’s useful information, even if it just fills in the gaps in the memories that don’t actually belong to Harry.

“Here you go, Harry.” Michal has returned with Harry’s coat, as well as a stack of leftover containers in a shopping bag. “I packed up the couscous and veg, thought you’d like it for dinner tomorrow.”

It’s almost more than Harry can take. He pulls Michal into a hug.

“Jesus, Harry,” Gemma says as she rescues the coat and food from Michal’s flailing hands. “This coat has seen better days, hasn’t it?”

“Huh?” Harry releases Michal and grimaces at the obvious wear Gemma is pointing out on his dingy gray peacoat. He’s noticed himself that the coat is not only falling apart but is also bland and boring. So, par for the course with the rest of the wardrobe he’s currently stuck with.

“You need to go shopping, brother,” Gemma says as she holds the offending garment up for Harry to slip his arms into.

“I should,” Harry says, and means it. “You’re right, Gems.”

“Oh, Haz.” Gemma leads him to the door. “You know I love hearing that.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Iced Americano for Harry!”

“That’s me,” Harry says as he approaches the counter at the coffeeshop a few doors down from the flower shop. “Thanks for this, love.” He nods to the barista as he takes his drink.

“Bit cold for that, isn’t it?” she asks with a smirk, turning back to the massive espresso machine but keeping an eye on Harry. He’s been coming into the shop at least once a day since he discovered it and has become friendly with the staff. No one in the shop seemed to know him, so Bizarro Harry must not be a regular, if he ever comes in at all. Harry looked, there’s no coffee in the flat or in the backroom of the florists, so he assumes Bizarro Harry doesn’t drink the stuff at all. Harry shudders at the thought of going without coffee.

“Oh, yeah. It’s silly, I know,” Harry says as he unwraps a straw. “I spend a lot of time in Los Angeles, so I just got used to drinking it iced year round. It’s habit now.”

“California, hey?” Her face lights up. “That’s exciting! What do you do there? Go on a lot of holidays, do you?”

Shit. So much for chatting and making friends without being suspicious. The barista knows he owns the flower shop down the way. Why the fuck would he be spending time in LA?

“Oh shoot, I’m needed at the shop.” Harry pulls out his phone and feigns receiving a text as he backs towards the door. “Thanks for this!”

He slips out with a wave, his eyes on the barista, and steps directly into the path of someone on the pavement. Harry’s drink is pressed against his body, the top pops off and he’s suddenly drenched in ice-cold coffee.

“What the fuck,” Harry half whinges, half sobs, arms held aloft and dripping. He’s more upset about losing his coffee than anything else.

“Holy shit, I’m so sorry about that, mate—er, Harry?”

Harry had been trying to extract the few remaining drops of coffee from his cup, but he looks up at the sound of his name.

“Louis! Er, hi! What, er…what are you doing here?”

“Making a mess of things, looks like. God, you must be freezing. Why the fuck are you drinking iced coffee in December?”

“I’m…I just—” Harry stammers. Louis’s just standing there, grinning at him, like smashing into a casual acquaintance and drenching them in precious coffee is a totally acceptable way to start his day. “I need to change.”

“Oh sure, of course, mate. Let me at least get you a replacement first, though.” Louis reaches past Harry for the door of the coffeeshop, eyebrows raised in invitation.

Harry huffs a consternated sigh, looking from Louis’s lovely, familiar face down to the time on his phone. As much as he’s tempted to spend a little time with Louis, he knows it’s a bad idea. Ever since the delivery at Louis’s house, Harry’s been firmly on the side of “stay the fuck out of Louis’s love life,” which for Harry will always translate to “stay out of Louis’s life full stop.”Despite everything here being not quite the same as what Harry’s used to, he still feels convinced that he has a fair amount of unfair insight into Louis Tomlinson and what it would take to woo him, girlfriend or no. If Harry’s completely honest with himself, there’s no way he’s spending any time with Louis and not attempting to woo him. Louis, to Harry, is just entirely too woo-able. Harry has convinced himself he needs to steer clear. Not to mention he really should go open the shop.

“I, er…I really should go.” Harry gestures in the direction of the flower shop. “I have to hurry if I’m going to open the shop on time.” He slips past Louis, making his way down the pavement, grateful for the excuse to get the fuck out of there.

“Oh sure, of course, mate. I’ll grab your drink and then meet you in the shop.”

Fuck.

Harry changes as quickly as he can, then rushes down the stairs to unlock the shop. Louis is standing by the front door waiting, a cup in each hand.

“Wow, hey…you’re— _here,”_ Harry stammers as he unlocks the door.

“I think I owed you, mate. I asked the girl in the shop what you ordered, though I still think it’s a bit daft to be drinking cold coffee in December in London. But you do you, Curly.”

Harry’s breath catches at the nickname and he almost spills his second coffee of the morning.

“Cheers,” he manages to croak out before taking a giant swig. He turns away from Louis and heads to the back of the store. Maybe if he doesn’t strike up a conversation Louis will take the hint and leave.

But no, of course not. Louis follows along behind him, seemingly oblivious to Harry’s awkward behavior.

“I got myself a tea, but of course they only have this hipster loose-leaf shit. They put it in this funny floppy bag that hangs over the side. If you’re going to put it in a bag anyway why can’t you just sell some proper tea?”

Harry reminds himself that while he is feeling more and more convinced that he knows this Louis almost as well as his own, this Louis does not know him. Thus, Harry refrains from calling him a jackass.

“Well, you didn’t have to buy it.” He can only do so much.

“Can’t have you drinking alone now, can I?” Louis raises his cup of tea, smirking at his own joke. Harry takes another gulp of his coffee, suddenly wishing they were actually _drinking_ drinking. He moves behind the counter, hoping that Louis doesn’t follow.He doesn’t, thank goodness, instead slowly shuffling around the shop, looking at this and that, eyes flicking back to Harry every five seconds, taking noisy slurps of his hot tea.

“I like your shirt,” Louis says at last. Harry looks down at the shirt he’s just changed into, pleased in spite of himself. It’s a vintage ’80’s Stevie Nicks t-shirt that he can’t believe he found at the charity shop down the road. He hasn’t had much time to follow through on his pledge to Gemma that he would improve his wardrobe, but he’s looked around a bit. He obviously has a nearly microscopic budget compared to what he’s used to, not to mention the fact that Gucci and YSL are hardly beating down the door of London florists to give them free clothes.

“I saw Fleetwood Mac this past summer, at Wembley,” Louis says coolly before taking a sip of tea.

“You did what?” Harry forgets himself and is instantly incredulous and combative. Louis most certainly did not see Fleetwood this past summer. _Harry_ saw Fleetwood at Wembley and he would most definitely know if Louis was there, and Louis was not there. “No, you did not!”

“Yeah I did, mate. What are you on about?”

“No, _I_ was at that show and I…” He trails off, realizing his mistake.

“Were you really?” Louis is excited and seems to gloss over Harry’s faux pas. “Imagine that, being at the same concert before we’d even met.”

Harry snorts a laugh at that and gags himself on a mouthful of coffee. “It’s wild, isn’t it?” Harry says when he recovers his ability to speak.

“It really is,” Louis says. He’s looking at Harry again, his head is bobbing up and down, like he’ll just keep on riding this one point of agreement until he can come up with something new to say. He seems to be at a loss, eventually casting his gaze about, still nodding away.

“Was there something you needed?” Harry asks at last.

“What’s that?” Louis looks confused.

“Did you need something? Were you headed here earlier? When you ran into me?”

“Oh! No.” Realization finally dawns on Louis. “No, just a lucky coincidence. Well, not for the shirt you had to change out of. Or your first cup of coffee.” He laughs, more uncomfortable now, less amused by himself.

Harry holds Louis’s gaze from across the counter. Harry widens his eyes and raises his brows. Jesus Christ, Louis is not making this easy on Harry.

“I’ll just…” Louis trails off and gestures towards the door. It’s killing Harry to watch him squirm like this. “Sorry again for knocking into you. Have a good morning, then? I’ll, er…see you? I’ll see you.”

Louis has a hand on the doorknob. He’s looking at Harry, as if waiting for Harry to say something, or wanting to say something more himself. Harry presses his lips together and gives a tight smile. _What do you want from me?_ he thinks. 

Louis opens his mouth as if to say something more, thinks better of it, raises his tea in Harry’s direction, then heads out the door.

***

Harry has become obsessed with Ellen Degeneres.

He’s scoured the internet, reading every bit of gossip, every biographical interview, every inane magazine blurb he can find. He finds himself huddled in bed at two in the morning, Boxy curled up and purring on his back, Bizarro Harry’s ancient laptop glaring at him from atop a pillow, watching YouTube video after YouTube video. Ellen dancing. Ellen making jokes. And the most maddening of all: Ellen playing pranks. Harry watches with his brows drawn together, his eyes in a critical squint, his mouth in a hard-set line. How many of these poor bastards are suffering a similar fate to Harry, pawns at the mercy of Ellen’s evil machinations? Surely Harry isn’t the only one currently living someone else’s life, stuck in an alternate dimension with no clue how to make things right? Or, holy shit, what if there are even worse fates that Ellen has doled out to unsuspecting celebrities? Is Ellen god? Is she watching Harry right now, trapped in some sort of Tardis-style butterfly jar? Massive on the inside, small enough on the outside to sit on a shelf in her office. Or maybe she has a room in her home, a secret room, walls lined with shelves, all holding mini universes containing the saps she’s convinced to play her bullshit games.

Eventually he works up the nerve to search for “One Direction Ellen Show.” He’s not entirely sure what he’s so afraid of, but he clicks on the first video to pop up and watches through splayed fingers. Similar to when he listened to his One Direction workout playlist at the gym, watching his bandmates chat to Ellen is eerily familiar but bizarrely off. It’s not so much that Harry is missing from the appearances. They’re different enough from what Harry remembers. It’s more like these events were destined to happen in some way or another, set markers, locked in time, trivial as they may be. He’s already watched a few of them and has relaxed enough to bring his hands away from his face when he realizes something odd about the video he’s currently watching. Well, odd in a relative sense. All of this is fucking odd, isn’t it? He’s watching Niall, Louis, Liam, and Zayn, cozied up on Ellen’s couch, each holding a paddle that says “I have” on one side and “I have never” on the other. Ellen is asking obviously leading questions and poking fun at all of their responses. Harry’s initial thought is _god, I fucking hated that game_. He would rank it as worse than “Burning Questions,” if he was going off of sheer humiliation factor, but when you take into account the whole dimension-hopping consequences thing, “Never Have I Ever” doesn’t seem so bad.

That’s not what’s strange, though. Harry realizes with a jolt that Zayn wasn’t there when they played “Never Have I Ever.” He’d left the band already. Harry checks the date on the video. November, 2015. He certainly doesn’t remember the date of their appearance on the show, but he knows that Zayn was long gone by that point. So this Zayn stuck around. God, what does that say about Harry? Zayn was ok with the rest of the lads, but throw Harry in the mix and he’s out of there? Or, maybe, Harry is being a self-centered prick and none of it has anything to do with him. He should be happy that Zayn wasn’t feeling so stressed out and run down that he needed to quit, shouldn’t he?

Harry looks back to the screen just as Ellen turns from the boys and looks _directly at him_. He freezes for a split second; his heart feels like it stops beating, anything to avoid Ellen’s notice. She couldn’t be…could she? Harry quickly realizes she’s only speaking to the camera, introducing an ad break. He’s an idiot.

Harry thinks it’s a good thing he doesn’t have access to acid or mushrooms right now. This whole thing has him about as fucked up as he can handle. He slams the laptop shut, then gingerly moves it onto the floor, so he doesn’t disturb the cat. He presses his cheek to the pillow, too warm from the overworked computer and falls into a fitful sleep, dreams full of evil blondes in Oxford shirts and trainers.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big giant thank you to my wonderful friend and beta maevewren for all of her help!
> 
> Also thanks to [TheMagicWord](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMagicWord/pseuds/TheMagicWord) for being my lone British friend and reassuring me when I try to sound not entirely American.

A few days later, Harry and Mason are both in the shop, Mason putting the finishing touches on a few arrangements he will later take out for delivery, and Harry puttering about the space, dusting here and there, rearranging some of the displays. Boxy is close at Harry’s heels, winding her way between his legs and rubbing a cheek against his calf when he stands in one place for more than a second.

Harry stands back from the table at the front of the store, admiring his handiwork, then looks between the display and Boxy with a raised eyebrow, an attempt to draw her attention to his efforts. She doesn’t take the hint. He’s quite chuffed, though, despite the cat’s indifference. He really has a knack for this stuff. He’s continually surprised by his seemingly inherent abilities, as well as the fact that he really enjoys this work. He can’t deny that he misses his old life and his career, but telling Ellen that he’d be a florist if he couldn’t be a musician wasn’t such a bad choice. Perhaps it’s because, in the back of his mind, Harry is convinced he will get back to his own dimension someday, but he doesn’t feel the need to complain about his current situation. This isn’t a bad life. He could do with a few friends, though. Would probably like someone to date, or at least have a quick shag now and then. But the work is good. It makes him happy, creating something beautiful that will then make someone else happy. It’s not that different from making music in that way, when you really get down to the bare bones of the thing.

“Harry,” Mason calls from behind the counter. Harry snaps out of his reverie. “Is that your pop star out on the pavement? He’s walked by at least ten times. Will you do him a favor and tell him to come in?”

“My what?”

“That boy-band fellow that we did the job for? Isn’t that him skulking about out there?”

Harry’s head snaps to the front of the shop. Lo and behold, there indeed is Louis Tomlinson. He’s got a cup in each hand, one hot, surely tea for himself, the other cold, what looks like iced coffee. Holy shit, what is he doing here again? He slowly paces past the front of the store, surreptitiously spying through the windows while attempting to blend in with the throng of pedestrians passing by. There’s likely a glare on the windows from the low winter sun. Louis is squinting a bit from beneath his sweatshirt hood, pulled up out of the collar of his parka. He crosses in front of the shop one more time, seems to make a resolution, and walks towards a nearby bin.

“Louis!” Harry yells out the door just as Louis is about to drop the iced coffee into the bin. He quickly jerks his hand back and turns to Harry. “Come in, it’s freezing out here.”

“Shit, you startled me, Harry,” Louis doesn’t throw the coffee away; in fact, he steps in front of the bin as if he can distract Harry from its existence. It doesn’t work.

“What’s that then?” Harry gestures to the cup as Louis squeezes past him into the shop. He doesn’t want to encourage whatever is happening here, but he can’t resist the opportunity to tease Louis a little bit. It’s historically proven impossible for Harry to avoid winding Louis up.

“Oh! I, er…I brought you this.” Louis holds the cup out with a casual (he wishes) shrug. As if he’d forgotten about it until Harry pointed it out.

“Er, thanks.” Harry takes the coffee. “So, were you…”

“Oh yeah, was just in the neighborhood again. Got myself a tea. This hipster shit isn’t half bad, turns out. Thought you might like a drink. Cold as tits out there though, isn’t it? Still think you’re mad for drinking that shite in December, but who am I to deny a man his pleasures.”

Harry’s eyes widen to the size of saucers as he wraps his lips around his straw and takes a long sip. He doesn’t mean to look suggestive but, Jesus Christ. What is he meant to do with that? He can tell immediately that it has an effect on Louis.

“I should go,” he stammers, one hand reaching towards the door.

“Oh, are you sure?” What is Harry thinking? _Let him go!_

Louis’s eyes dart to the back of the shop and Mason.

“Don’t leave on my account,” Mason drawls coolly as he ambles into the back room in search of more cellophane.

“No, it’s not him…” Louis fidgets with the ties at the neck of his hoodie. Harry sips his coffee while gathering up his dusting supplies but stays silent. He’s reminded that Louis usually benefits from being given some room to get his thoughts in order, the space to figure out exactly what he’s feeling and formulate what he needs to say about it. But rather than continuing his thought, Louis simply breathes a little sigh after some minutes have passed, as if he’s been let off the hook by Harry’s silence and he can move on without having to explain his presence in Harry’s neighborhood. Harry supposes he’s right. He’s certainly not going to press Louis on the issue. He doesn’t imagine he could without coming across as suspicious, or at the very least rude. How funny though that they have reached this quiet understanding when they know one another so little. Well, Louis hardly knows Harry; Harry might know this Louis, he just can’t be sure. Harry’s cheeks grow warm at the thought nonetheless as he walks towards the back of the shop to stash his cleaning supplies.

“Who’s this, then?” Louis coos. Harry turns to find him crouched down in the middle of the shop, scratching Boxy beneath her chin. Her eyes are closed in bliss and she’s purring loud enough for Harry to hear, rubbing her face against Louis’s hand aggressively, their noses practically touching.

“Oh, that’s Boxy.” Harry crosses his arms in front of himself and leans on the counter, nothing to do but enjoy the scene before him. “She’s mine. She comes down to the shop with me most days.”

“Proper sweetheart, isn’t she?” Louis slides the cat’s name tag out to the side and leans in to squint at it. “Boxers or Briefs? What the fuck kind of name is that Harry?” Louis laughs, indignant.

“What, you don’t like it?” Harry isn’t honestly sure how to answer. Why the fuck would someone name their pet “Boxers or Briefs?” _Oh, you see, I come from another dimension where Ellen Degeneres had me play this game and I lied about what sort of pants I wear so…_

“I didn’t say that,” Louis says. “Just a bit odd, is all. But then, you’re a bit odd, aren’t you, Harry? Not in a bad way, mind. I think I like it. _And I like you…”_ His voice raises an octave as he says this last bit to the cat. Boxy rises up on her hind legs and rubs her face against Louis’s. It knocks him off balance and he sits back on the floor, laughing. The cat isn’t done with him yet and saunters onto his lap, arching up to rub her head under his chin. Harry’s heart feels close to bursting at the sight.

Things continue in this manner for a while, Boxy preening under Louis’s ministrations, Harry gazing on, doe-eyed and melting over it all. He’s caught off guard when Louis finally speaks.

“So you live upstairs, then?” he asks.

“Oh, er,” Harry stammers. “I do, yeah. Small flat up there. Thought you knew that. That’s stupid though. Not sure why, I guess. No reason for you to.”

“I figured you lived nearby, you went home to change so fast after I spilled coffee on you the last time.” Louis strokes Boxy’s back one last time before gently removing her from his lap and rising to his feet. “It’s a nice neighborhood. Do you like it here?” He retrieves his tea from the floor and wanders over to stand across the counter from Harry.

“Yeah, it is that. I suppose I do.” Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson, grown-arse adults making small talk, what the fuck is happening.

Louis is quiet for a moment. He fiddles with the lid of his cup, twisting it this way and that, lips pursed, nodding to himself.

“Is there—” Harry starts but Louis interrupts him.

“She’s not back yet,” Louis says. “My girlfriend.”

“Oh,” Harry says. He’s not sure how he’s meant to respond to this information.

“Yeah, she’s still in Paris or summat. I thought I’d let you know…”

“Oh! I don’t—”

“Because of the job, I mean. Thought you’d be wondering when we’d be trying again, with the flowers and all that.”

“Oh, sure. I wasn’t…I mean, I didn’t…”

“Yeah, I’m not sure if I will do it again, if I’m honest. Think I’ve lost some enthusiasm for the…the idea.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. I guess I hadn’t thought about it. I mean, you did pay me and all, you know, the first time.”

“Sure, yeah.” Louis looks down at the floor, scuffs his toe against the base of the counter. He almost looks hurt.

“I’m sorry, though,” Harry says.

“What are you sorry about?”

“I just…well, sorry that things aren’t going well, I guess.”

“Oh yeah, no, it’s fine. She’s not—I mean, it’s not bad as all that.”

“Oh. I guess I just thought, you know, because of everything you said before and the grand gesture and all.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. I think I had it wrong though. Maybe a big gesture isn’t what’s needed. Maybe it’s nothing. Or maybe I’m just rubbish at being a boyfriend and she’s better off without me.”

Harry clears his throat.

“Anyway, like I said, I don’t think it’s as bad as that. I think she’s just enjoying herself, you know. It’s nothing to do with me, most likely.”

“No, I’m sure it isn’t,” Harry says.

“Well, I’ll let you get back to work, then.” Louis moves towards the front door.

“Thanks for the coffee,” Harry calls after him. Louis gives a wave as he steps out into the cold.

***

“Harold, how the fuck am I meant to play any music?” Gemma bellows from Harry’s bedroom. He’s invited her over for dinner and she’s wandering about, inspecting the flat while he puts together a tofu and veggie stir-fry. She claims to have barely spent any time in the place before now, and, though appalled at the suggestion, he has no choice but to believe her. No inclination to, either. Bizarro Harry seems to have kept everyone in his life at arm’s length. Not to mention that his flat is hardly equipped for entertaining, the lack of any music playing device in point of fact.

“Seriously Harry, you’re not a monk. How do you listen to music?” Gemma pops out of the bedroom, her brow furrowed.

“On my earbuds? Or my laptop speakers?” He flinches as she swats at him with a dish towel.

“Unacceptable, Harold!”

“I know! I’m sorry! It’s just, it’s always just me up here. It’s never really bothered me.” In the last three weeks he’s been in this dimension, he adds to himself.

“Hmm,” Gemma grumbles as she hops up onto the work surface beside Harry’s cutting board. She swipes a carrot from the board and crunches down on it, giving him a scrutinizing glare. “Don’t think that’s something to brag about, always being alone.”

“Those are for your dinner, thank you very much,” Harry says, snatching the carrot back from her. She laughs, pleased as he is by the fraternal teasing that Harry realizes has been missing from both their lives. “And I wasn’t bragging. Just stating a fact.”

She gives him another appraising look, less critical this time.

“I like your outfit,” Gemma says. “Looking a bit sharper than when I last saw you.”

“What, this?” Harry looks down at his clothes, as if he’s taken aback at the compliment. “Do you think?”

“I peeked in your wardrobe. Looks like someone’s been shopping.”

“Told you I would, didn’t I?” Harry has done quite a bit of shopping in the time since he last saw Gemma. The more time he spent scouring the racks at all the local charity shops, the more he kept replaying what Michal had said about him, that he wasn’t the type to get tattooed, that he wasn’t flashy. That, coupled with the utter dreariness of Bizarro Harry’s wardrobe and how at odds it was with the way Harry was used to dressing, the way he wanted the world to see him, spurred on his purchasing. Tonight he had on a pair of brown wool check trousers, paired with a plain white t-shirt and a slouchy red and blue striped cardigan. Sprucing up his wardrobe had done loads to make Harry feel more like himself.

“You did, brother. I just can’t believe you actually did it. And so quickly. I’m not used to you taking my advice. Hell, I’m not used to you being around for me to give advice to!”

“I know, I’m sorry about that. I think I haven’t been feeling like myself for a long time now and it—well, I think it’s easier to pretend everything is just fine if I don’t have to answer to anybody who might know better.” This is, at least, what Harry imagines has been going on. He doesn’t know how else to explain Bizarro Harry still being in the closet, keeping to himself, leading such a cloistered life. “Things are changing though. I’m changing. Just look at me: wearing actual colors _and_ there’s a real live human other than myself in my flat!”

Gemma smiles at him warmly and hops down off the worktop. “I’m happy for you, Harry.” She gives him a little side hug. “I’ll set the table.”

“I don’t want to keep harping on about it, but Harry, what is with the music situation?” Gemma asks later as she pours herself another glass of wine and Harry clears away their dinner plates.

“I told you, I never have anyone over. I just listen on my earbuds.”

“No, it’s not just that, sad as that is. You’ve got no instruments either. There’s nothing in this flat with which one could make music, unless you’re going to start banging on pots and pans, that is. But let’s be honest, Harry, you’ve never been much of a percussionist, have you?”

Harry has wondered the same thing himself. The absence of a guitar or piano or even a keyboard _did_ seem strange to him. He just assumed Bizarro Harry didn’t play. He’s not sure how to talk about this without revealing that he has no idea why there’s no guitar in his flat.

He sighs. “I really don’t know, Gems. I don’t know what to tell you.”

“You know,” Gemma says, her eyes on her wine glass, avoiding Harry’s gaze. “I always thought it was strange that you went to school for business.”

“That I…” This is new information.

“You were pretty torn up over not making it on _The X Factor_ , weren’t you?” She lifts her eyes, hesitantly.

“Well, sure, I must have been, right? Who wouldn’t be?”

“Of course, you were. It just…well you were still so young. It was your first real shot at anything. I never understood why you gave up on music so quickly.”

Harry’s unsure how to respond. He gives a noncommittal grunt.

“I had no idea it was this extreme, though. I always assumed you still played for fun, even if you weren’t pursuing music as a career or anything.”

To give up music completely; it’s something Harry can’t even begin to fathom. Even these last weeks he’s spent with nothing to play have Harry’s fingers forming phantom chords and tapping out silent melodies. Making music is so solidly part of who he is that he can’t imagine how anyone, but especially this alternate version of himself, could just stop.

“I have…” he starts. “I have missed it. Lately, I mean. I think…well, things are changing. _I’m_ changing. I need to change.”

Gemma gives him a tight smile and squeezes his hand.

“I don’t want you to think you have to change. I love you, you know. Mum loves you.”

“Gross, Gemma.” Harry looks her dead in the eyes and holds back a smirk.

“I know! It’s absolutely disgusting!” She bursts out laughing. “I can barely stand myself right now. It’s true, though. We do love you.”

“Yeah, I know it.”

“I just want you to be happy, and you haven’t seemed very happy…for a long time now.”

Her hand is still holding his. He places his other hand atop hers. “I don’t think I have been. Sometimes it’s hard to tell when you're stuck in the middle of it all. But I’m working on it now. This helps. Honestly, you’re helping.”

“I’m really glad, Harry.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big giant thank you to my wonderful friend and beta maevewren for all of her help!
> 
> And thanks to [TheMagicWord](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMagicWord/pseuds/TheMagicWord) for being my lone British friend and resource and answering all my ridiculous questions.

In the midst of all his inter-dimensional travel and bizarre not-quite-self-discovery, Harry has completely lost track of the fact that it’s nearly Christmas. Los Angeles had been sunny, if not entirely warm, when he was there and ever since his brain has simply not had the bandwidth to register the approaching holidays. This is true in spite of the frigid damp of London in December and the visual explosion of twinkling lights everywhere one turns, his own shop included. Luckily for Harry, Mason has silently taken on the task of hauling out boxes of fairy lights, covering a little three-foot potted evergreen tree in the front window with baubles and tinsel, and ensuring they remain fully stocked with wreaths, pine garlands and poinsettias. As Harry grows more and more accustomed to his new reality and continues to unearth the long hidden personality he believes to be buried deep within Bizarro Harry, he emerges just the tiniest bit from the fog and begins to let in a touch of holiday spirit. Boxy’s got a satiny red bow on her collar, the shop is filled with the sounds of Bizarro Harry’s massive Christmas playlist, and Harry has made arrangements to ride up to Cheshire with Gemma and Michal and spend Christmas with his mum. At times he finds himself so caught up in the excitement of the season that he momentarily forgets he’s not actually meant to be here. So much of it all feels so normal, just the same as his regular life, that he loses track of what that regular life even is. For a few sparkling moments, all he can think of is how much he misses his mum, how delicious the Christmas meal will be, how much fun he’ll have playing games with family and friends.

But then there are moments that bring reality screeching back into focus.

One night, after Mason has gone home and the “closed” sign is up in the front window, Harry is finishing up a bit of bookkeeping in the back room before he and Boxy make their way upstairs in search of some dinner. He’s brought Bizarro Harry’s laptop down and is trying to sync up the accounting program with the shop computer so that he can get a few things done while he’s at his mum’s house for Christmas. As he waits for what he hopes (fingers crossed) are the correct files to transfer over, an alert from the messaging app pops up. Harry hasn’t used the computer for anything but Ellen Degeneres obsessing and music playing, and didn’t even realize there was such an app on the machine.

_Gemma: When’s the shop close tommoz? Pick you up then?_

Gemma and Michal are planning to drive to Cheshire on Christmas Eve, but Harry will be taking the train back on Boxing Day. He wants to be able to give Mason a few days off and he can really only afford to close the shop on Christmas day itself.

_Harry: closing early at 2. I’ll be waiting with jingle bells on * <:)}_

_Harry: (that’s meant to be Father Xmas)_

_Harry: (in case you couldn’t tell)_

_Harry: (the last bracket is his beard. quite proud of that bit actually)_

_Gemma: DORK_

Harry laughs, both at his own joke and Gemma’s teasing. He can’t wait until tomorrow.

Having the messaging app open on the laptop, a thought occurs to Harry. He’s scoured Bizarro Harry’s phone for any trace of a relationship with Zayn to no avail, but maybe the data on the laptop predates the phone. He clicks over to the search bar in the messaging window and types in “Zayn.” He doesn’t even have to get past the “Z,” and there it is; a text conversation with Zayn Malik. With a shaking finger, Harry opens the message.

Dated almost a year ago, there’s only a few lines.

_Zayn: Listened to your voicemail. You need to back off._

_Harry: I don’t want you to be mad. Can we plz talk in person??_

_Zayn: You’ve crossed a line Harry._

And that’s it. Nothing before, nothing after. _Holy shit._ Harry thinks to himself. What could he have possibly done to get a response like that? His fingers hover over the keyboard. He can’t just cluelessly stumble into a conversation with Zayn after all this time. Whatever he’d done or said, clearly Bizarro Harry understood it was bad enough that Zayn wouldn’t want to hear from him again. Christ, did he delete Zayn’s number from his phone because of this? Suddenly Harry’s glittering ball of Christmas cheer has fizzled out and turned into a lead weight in the pit of his stomach. Why does every piece of new information he gathers only make him more confused, more unsettled? He doesn’t know what to do with this at all. He doesn’t even know if he should do anything, but he hates the thought of abandoning one of the few concrete relationships he knows Bizarro Harry has, even if he did somehow cock it up. He quickly copies Zayn’s number from the laptop to his phone, not sure what, if anything, he’ll do with it, but not willing to give up on Zayn yet.

***

“Harry,” Mason is standing in the doorway to the backroom of the shop. “Is it okay if I take off a few minutes early? Can’t imagine anyone else is coming round in the last five minutes before closing.”

“Yeah, of course. Have a happy Christmas, Mason.”

Before Mason can even turn around, the bell above the door jingles.

“Spoke too soon,” he says with a sigh and steps out into the shop.

“Don’t worry about it,” Harry calls. “You get out of here. I’ll be out in a mo.”

“Good, ‘cos your pop star is back. Happy Christmas, Harry!”

Harry freezes. He hears the jingle of the door again as Mason leaves.

“Louis! Hi!” Harry comes out of the back to find an awkward Louis shuffling his feet, cheeks flushed red. He’s wearing the same oversized parka and hoodie combo as last time, messy brown fringe poking out from under the hood, quite a few days’ worth of stubble on his chin, and bags under his eyes. He’s clearly embarrassed by Mason’s announcement of his arrival but he smiles hesitantly when he sees Harry. His eyes light up just the tiniest bit and Harry would swear he hears a hitch in Louis’s breath. He’s got a drink in each hand, like last time.

“Not too late for a cuppa, is it?” Louis asks, handing Harry an iced coffee.

“Never,” Harry says as he accepts the cup.

“Brought you something else as well.” Louis reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small brown paper bag. “Happy Christmas,” he says as he hands it to Harry.

“What? Louis, you—”

“It’s nothing,” Louis interrupts. Harry opens the bag. “Just saw it at the coffee shop and thought of you.”

Out of the bag, Harry pulls a fancy, iced biscuit. It’s shaped like a cat’s head, wearing a Santa hat.

“It’s Santa Boxy!” Harry laughs. “That’s amazing, Louis, not nothing. I can’t believe you got me something. Holy shit, I should be giving you a gift. It’s your fucking birthday!” Harry slaps a palm to his forehead.

“How do you know it’s my birthday?” Louis looks confused but not displeased.

“Oh! Ha ha, I er…” _Fuck._ “I guess it’s an easy date to remember, isn’t it? Must have read it somewhere. Big fan and all.” Harry tugs at the collar of his shirt like he’s some sort of cartoon character.

“Big fan, yeah…you’ve said.” Louis nods hesitantly but his lips twitch up into a small smile. “Anyways, just a stupid biscuit, thought it was a laugh.” Boxy has come out from wherever she was napping and rubs against Louis’s calf. He squats down to give her a scratch.

“Well thanks, it is…a laugh, I mean. It’s really sweet of you.”

“Nah, it’s nothing.”

“And the coffee. Thanks for that as well. I er… Lou—Louis, erm, what are you…”

“Oh, was just in the neighborhood. Keep ending up here lately, it’s mad.”

“It is a bit…”

“Not a lot doing these days. I’ve just…well, I find myself out walking a lot. It really is good tea, though. I hate to admit it, but it’s true.” Louis forces a small chuckle at his joke, but Harry can’t ignore the fact that he looks a bit sad. _You cannot befriend Louis Tomlinson. You cannot—_

“Louis, do you want to…” Harry trails off. _What even are you going to ask him?_ Harry has no idea what he’s trying to do, he’s never been able to see Louis in a bad way and just leave it be. _You cannot befriend Louis Tomlinson._

“Yeah, mate?” Louis looks up from the cat to Harry, expectantly. _Oh god, maybe even hopefully?_

_*Jingle*_

Before Harry can respond, Gemma’s boyfriend Michal enters the shop.

“All right, Harold? Happy Christmas—ah, what’s this then?” Michal grabs a sprig of mistletoe from the front display table and holds it up over Harry’s head. “Come on then, Hazza.” Michal throws an arm around Harry’s neck and gives him a giant, smacking kiss on the cheek.

“Happy Christmas, Michal.” Harry laughs and gives Michal a squeeze around the waist.

“All right, mate?” With his arm still looped around Harry’s neck, Michael notices Louis. “Sorry to interrupt.”

“No, no—it’s fine.” Louis’s eyes dart between Michal and Harry, widening slightly as they do. “I should probably…I should go.”

“Don’t leave on my account. Although Harry, you’re closing at two, right? We should leave soon, your mum’s expecting us for dinner.”

“Er, yeah, that’s fine.” Harry watches Louis’s face as he says it. His eyes narrow and he nods subtly, as if he’s figured out the situation. “I’m sorry Louis, was there something…?”

“Nah, no—nothing.”

“Today is Louis’s birthday and he brought _me_ a present.” Harry shows Michal the biscuit.

“It’s Boxy! Well isn’t that lovely.”

“It’s really nothing,” Louis says. “You lads have places to be, I’ll let you get to it. Happy Christmas, Harry. Er, nice to meet you…”

“Michal,” Michal says with an outstretched hand. “You too. And happy birthday!”

“Cheers,” Louis says. He hesitantly accepts Michal’s hand, then looks towards the door but doesn’t make a move.

“So…Harry, Gemma’s parked down the road,” Michal says. “I’ll just go wait with her? Give you a minute to, er…close up shop.” And he slips out onto the pavement before Harry can stop him.

“Well, I guess I should…” Harry looks towards the back of the shop.

“He seems nice,” Louis interrupts.

“Oh, yeah. Michal is great.”

“Is he…how long have you…” Louis trails off.

“Known him? Erm…I guess four years now? I think?”

Louis looks down at his feet, scuffing one shoe on the floor.

“Wait,” Harry has a sudden realization. “Do you mean…he’s not my—Michal’s my sister’s boyfriend.”

“Oh, sure.” Louis’s expression is guarded but Harry swears his shoulders relax a little at this information. “I wasn’t sure if you were—I mean, you’re not, then…”

Harry raises an eyebrow.

“I’m not what? Dating my sister’s boyfriend? No, definitely not.”

Louis shakes his head in frustration. “Forget it. Never mind.”

“Are you asking if I’m gay?”

“No, you’re not—I mean, it doesn’t matter. Forget I asked.”

“Sure, Louis.” Harry has a hard time not letting annoyance seep into his tone. “I really should be closing up.”

“Hey, no offense, right?” Louis looks confused.

“Why would I be offended?” Harry stalks off to the back of the shop, shutting down the computer, turning off the lights in back. He gathers Boxy up under one arm and grabs the coffee and biscuit with the other, then leads Louis out of the shop.

“Hold this, please.” Harry drops the cat into Louis’s arms. “I am, you know… gay,” Harry says as he turns the key in the lock.

“Oh! That’s…see, I’d thought…” Louis stammers, Boxy clutched to his chest.

“Thanks for the coffee. And the biscuit.” Harry takes the cat back from Louis. “Happy birthday, again. And happy Christmas. I’ll see you around, I’m sure.” Harry enters the doorway that leads to his flat, leaving a silent Louis on the pavement.

***

Christmas Day with his mum is as wonderful as Harry hoped it would be. Spending time with her fills him with the same feeling of being _known_ that he got from Gemma. It doesn’t matter that he’s a florist and not a musician. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t have money to buy her anything fancy for Christmas. She’s his mum, and she sees a part of him that’s true across all dimensions. He can be himself around her. He loves it.

And since he’s being himself, Harry knows he has to come out to his mum as well. Having time to prepare for the conversation, as opposed to unwittingly stumbling into it as he did with Gemma and Michal, is nice. As she did the last time Harry came out, his mum happily takes the news in stride, tells him she loves him and that she’s so proud of him.

On Christmas morning, they exchange presents. Harry’s family has never been very materialistic but in recent years Harry has splashed out a bit on pricey, though still thoughtful, gifts. Bizarro Harry’s bank account has forced him to turn the dial all the way over to the thoughtful end of the spectrum, but everyone is happy and satisfied with all the giving and receiving that happens. Harry is shocked to open a gift from his mum to find a new iPhone.

“Oh Mum, this is too much!” Harry exclaims.

“It absolutely is not,” Anne says. “Don’t think I haven’t seen the shattered screen on your old one.”

“I know, it’s just so much money…”

“And I’m happy to spend it, darling.” She wraps an arm around his shoulders and kisses the side of his head. “Let me do something nice for you.”

In his real life, Harry was sixteen the last time he relied on his mum for anything financial. This is so strange, but it also feels like Harry is getting something back, something that he missed out on when he left home as young as he did.

“Cheers, Mum. It’s so thoughtful of you.”

“I love you, sweetheart.”

That night, with bellies full of roast dinner, and fresh off a victory over friends at charades, Harry, Gemma, Michal, and Anne have all collapsed in front of the telly. The majority have elected to watch the Gavin and Stacey Christmas special, even though Harry was pushing hard for a Dolly Parton documentary. Not as Christmas-y, no, but he was nervous at the prospect of spending an hour watching James Corden on screen without somehow letting on that Harry knew him. That he’d held his children. That he’d kissed him. More than once, at that.

Instead of paying attention to the program, Harry opens up his new phone and goes about setting it up. When he’s finished ensuring all of his favorite apps are downloaded, he opens Instagram, only to find he needs to login. Thankfully, Bizarro Harry has all of his passwords saved. But when he goes to select the password, Harry sees that there are two Instagram accounts with passwords saved to his iCloud. There’s the one Harry’s familiar with, the one he uses to post about the store and occasionally share a photo of Boxy, but then there’s a second account, username LtIsMySuNflower. The password for this account is saved as well. He logs in.

What he finds is an account with zero followers and zero posts that’s following nothing but One Direction, and more specifically Louis Tomlinson, fan accounts. The entire feed is nothing but 1D memes, fan art, manips, and Louis. It’s just wall-to-wall Louis. Odes to Louis’s blue eyes, comparison videos of Louis’s vocals through the years, edits focused on Louis playing football, Louis at awards shows, Louis’s arse. There’s a whole collection of saved posts, divided into separate folders, some for the band as a whole, but the overwhelming majority revolve around Louis.

_Shit._

This is not something Harry saw coming. His face flushes and he can’t hold in a laugh. Harry Styles, secret Louis Tomlinson stan. Well, it’s not far from the truth, is it?

There’s no way to tell how old the account is, how long Bizarro Harry has been low-key internet stalking Louis. A thought occurs to Harry: what if Zayn found out about this? What if this is the line he was accusing Harry of crossing?

“Everything alright, darling?” Harry’s mum asks.

“Yep, all good, Mum.” Harry tucks the phone between the sofa cushions and decides not to think any more about Louis tonight.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wowwwwww it's been too long! This fic is not abandoned! I'm not making any promises about how frequently I will update but please know this story is not dead! Thanks to everyone reading and checking in. I will try very hard to not wait another six months to update.
> 
> Big giant thank you to my wonderful friend and beta maevewren for all of her help!

The following day, Harry reluctantly takes the train back to London, leaving his mum with a promise that he will be back for a longer visit as soon as possible. As much as he’d like to stay longer, even the short trip has him feeling recharged. He thinks about how long it’s been since he’s seen his mum back in his own dimension. The absence is probably as long, if not longer, for him as it is for Bizarro Harry. Of course he has the excuse of living the jet-setting lifestyle of an international pop star, but he also has the means to travel home whenever his schedule allows it, and he knows he hasn’t been taking advantage.

Watching the dreary grey countryside whizz past, Harry fingers the necklace around his neck. After arriving in Bizarro Harry’s flat, he’d been devastated to find his pearls missing. They’d belonged to his nan and, more than anything else that seemed to have disappeared “en route” to this dimension, the loss has continued to weigh on him. But he had the brilliant idea to mention the pearls to his mum this morning and, lo and behold, she had them! She was a bit confused as to why he suddenly wanted to wear “women’s” jewelry. He let that slide, assuming that, like his actual mum, if pressed she’d agree that traditional gender norms in fashion were absurd. Instead, he chalked her reaction up to adding the pearls to Bizarro Harry’s dull wardrobe and lack of accessories. Harry has done a lot to liven things up, sartorially at least. The addition of the pearls feels like a very important piece of the puzzle, reclaiming Harry’s sense of self.

He thinks about the Louis situation and he can’t quite get over the fact that there even _is_ a situation to begin with. Well, one beyond what is already happening back in London, with the Eleanor scheme and the coffees, oh and let’s not forget the possible homophobia? All this time, Harry has been marveling at the way Louis seemed to be drawn to him in this dimension, just like he had in Harry’s own, despite their vastly different stations in life. Or at least he had been drawn to Harry. Who knows if he’ll come around again. He acted so strange when he found out Harry is gay.

But now, Harry has evidence that the reverse is true as well, that Bizarro Harry is just as obsessed with Louis as Harry was back home. The whole thing is a little spooky. It really lends credence to the existence of soulmates, but if Louis is really Harry’s soulmate, what does that say about how royally fucked their relationship in his own dimension has become? Or wherever they stand with each other here, for that matter. Dwelling on it gives Harry a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach but he finds it impossible to do much else. The solitary bit of positivity he tries to wring out of this train of thinking is the idea that maybe that’s why he is here. Maybe he _had_ fucked things up with his Louis, but here is a new Louis, possibly ready for Harry to give it another shot. Ignoring the fact that this new Louis is straight, seemed bothered that Harry is gay, and has a girlfriend, of course. It isn’t a perfect theory, but it’s something.

Harry also comes to the conclusion that Zayn couldn’t be mad about his obsession with Louis, if he even knew about it. If he was, why would he have recommended the flower shop to Louis? What could have changed in the year since that message was sent if Harry and Zayn have remained out of touch? No, Zayn must not be aware of any of it. Sending Louis’s business Harry’s way as an olive branch feels like something Zayn would do. Sending an unaccompanied Louis to a person who’s been secretly obsessing over him does not. This conclusion does little to comfort Harry, though. He’s no closer to figuring out what Zayn was actually mad about.

***

Later in the week, Gemma has returned to London and is hanging about the flower shop, trying to convince Harry to close for lunch. Mason is out doing deliveries— plenty of New Year’s Eve parties that need centerpieces, late Christmas arrangements, and bouquets for people still in a haze of holiday romance. Harry is feeling sour about all of it. Not in the mood to celebrate the new year, and bitter at the mere suggestion of love. He hasn’t seen hide nor hair of Louis since he’s been back. Not that he expected to, and not that he should be associating this Louis with anything romantic, but the two are, unfortunately, inextricably linked in Harry’s head.

“Come on, Haz, you can close up for thirty minutes. I’ll buy you a kebab!” Gemma is leaning against the counter, idly scratching Boxy behind the ears as she attempts to coerce Harry to leave the shop.

“What are you on about, kebab? I don’t eat meat. _You_ don’t eat meat!” Harry is just not in the mood to socialize. The warm and fuzzy Christmas glow has worn off and he’s left with missing his old life, confusion over Zayn, and hurt over Louis’s absence.

“They have falafel, you bellend. What’s got you so crabby?”

“I’m sorry.” Harry sighs. “I guess it’s just the let down after Christmas excitement.” There’s no way he’s getting into his real feelings right now. “Why don’t we split the difference. You go grab some food and we can eat in the back.” That should give him fifteen minutes to himself to try and snap out of it.

Gemma agrees and is headed towards the door when the tinkle of the bell alerts Harry to a customer’s arrival.

“Oh!” Gemma stops short, frozen in place at the sight of Louis.

“Hiya,” Louis says, nodding at Gemma.

“You’re—hi! Harry, it’s—” Gemma stammers, gesturing between Louis and Harry, stood behind the cash register. Harry had filled her in a bit on the Louis situation on the drive to Cheshire. He’d preferred not to but Michal had insisted after his run in at the shop. Harry hadn’t wanted to get into the whole “I just told him I was gay and I don’t think he liked it” thing though, and so he’d left it at friend of Zayn, former boy-bander Louis Tomlinson, had been hanging round recently, for some unknown reason. Gemma had clearly wanted to know more but knew Harry well enough to tell that he wasn’t in the mood to talk about it.

“Louis, this is my sister, Gemma.” Harry picks up Boxy and nestles her against his chest to give himself something to do with his arms.

“Nice to meet you, Gemma,” Louis says.

“Likewise,” Gemma responds, her eyes shifting between Louis and Harry. Harry can tell she’s trying to figure out what Louis’s doing there. Harry would like to know himself.

“Were you…” Harry starts, inclining his head towards the door.

“Oh! Yes. Falafel. Louis, do you—”

“He doesn’t like falafel,” Harry says before he can stop himself.

Louis gives him a confused look. “How do you know—”

“I just meant you won’t be staying. I mean, I’m sure you have places to be, you don’t want to eat takeaway with us in the back of the shop.”

“No, I guess not…” Louis looks wistful.

“Okay then, falafel for two,” Gemma says awkwardly. “Be back in a few then, Harry.” She ducks out of the shop.

“How was your holiday then, mate?” Louis asks.

Harry bristles at “mate.” The endless feed of Louis and 1D posts from his secret Instagram account flash through Harry’s mind; he can feel his cheeks burn, as if Louis can see his thoughts. But then he remembers how awkward Louis was when he found out Harry was gay and Harry starts to burn for a different reason.

“It was fine,” Harry says curtly.

“That’s good!” Louis shuffles his feet, staring down at his toes.

“Is there—” Harry starts but Louis interrupts him.

“Look Harry, I owe you an apology.”

Harry holds Boxy closer to his chest but doesn’t say anything.

“I acted like a right tosser last time I saw you. Proper shite of me, I—”

“Louis, stop. It’s fine. You don’t have to—I mean, you don’t even know me. It doesn’t matter.” It hurts Harry to say it.

“No, you’re right, I don’t know you. But I—well I feel like I do. A bit, I mean. Like, I want to, I guess.” Louis fixes his fringe, his eyes glued to the cat rather than Harry.

Harry doesn’t know how to respond.

“I guess I just don’t have a lot of friends who are…well, you know,” Louis mumbles.

“Gay?” Harry asks.

“Well, yeah.”

“How is that possible? You’re in the music industry.”

“You’re right, mate. It’s mad, innit? I mean I _know_ plenty of people who are, gay, that is… I guess I’m just not close with them.” He catches himself and stammers, “That’s not because they’re gay, though! I’m just not really close to many people. It’s hard when you’re a celebrity.”

Harry’s heart gave an uncomfortable squeeze. “That’s for sure.”

Louis’s eyes darted up to meet Harry’s. “Oh god. I sound like a twat. Moaning about being famous.”

“No, no!” Harry realizes he’s slipped up. “You don’t at all. I just meant…I can imagine.”

“I’m not complaining. I’ve been so lucky with my career and all…I guess it’s just been a lonely Christmas. Anyway, I wasn’t—I mean, I guess I hoped you were…I mean I _thought_ you were, but I just—I’m sorry! That’s all. I’m sorry I was an arse.”

Harry presses his lips together, trying to suppress a smile at Louis’s flustered apology. He _hoped?_ Harry’s brain is awash with memories of 18-year-old Louis awkwardly flirting with Harry for months before realizing what he was doing. This whole situation is giving him déjà vu.

“Really, _mate_. It’s cool.” Harry shifts Boxy under one arm and slaps Louis’s hand with the other. Maybe playing along and being “bros” wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

“Cool…yeah mate, cool.” Harry thinks Louis’s hand lingers against his a moment longer than necessary.

“Bloody hell it’s cold as tits out there!” The bell rings and Gemma bursts back into the shop, a bag from the kebab shop clutched in her arms. “Oh! Louis, you’re still here. Well now I feel like I should have gotten you something in spite of Harry’s protestations.”

“Nah, it’s fine. I’m leaving.” Louis looks back to Harry and doesn’t seem afraid to look him in the eye now. He’s quiet though, Harry can see the wheels in his head spinning.

“I wanted to ask…” Louis trails off, then looks to Gemma who has taken the food to the back counter and is tucking in to her falafel.

“Yeah?” Harry steps in between Louis’s line of sight and his sister.

“Oh nothing, just…” Louis shakes his head. “Well, it’s New Year’s on Friday. I was just wondering if you had plans, if you maybe wanted to come out or sommat? I was planning to go to a show at this club in Shoreditch, it should be pretty chilled out, nothing too rowdy.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say. What is this? Is this Louis asking him out on a date? It can’t be. And if it was, Harry’s not so sure he could say yes, even if he wanted to. He places Boxy on the floor to stall for time, then reaches up and scratches the back of his neck.

“Louis, I—”

“Ee’b lobboo!” Gemma calls out from behind Harry, her mouth full of pita. She swallows exaggeratedly. “I mean, he’d love to!”

Harry whirls around and gives her a death glare.

Gemma dabs at her smile with a paper napkin and shrugs at Harry.

He turns back to Louis, who’s watching him expectantly, joy and relief evident on his face.

“Yeah, that sounds nice, Lou.”

Louis’s shoulders relax. “Aces. Well, let me get your number then…should I pick you up?”

“No!” Harry blurts out. “I mean, no thanks…I can meet you there. Just—you can text me the address. I’ll be working that day anyway.” Harry writes down his number on the back of a business card and hands it to Louis.

“You’re going to be open on—” Gemma starts to question him.

Harry whirls again, death glares again.

“Oh! I mean, uh…well I—” She cuts herself off and ducks into the back room.

“Great then! I’ll send you the info.” Louis taps Harry’s number into his phone right away, then tips his head at Harry before heading towards the door.

“I’ll, um…I’ll see you, Harry. Soon.”

Harry slumps to the back of the shop. “You can come out now.”

“How ‘bout that then? Got yourself a hot date for New Year’s?” Gemma asks, eyebrows waggling.

“Gemma, why did you do that?” Harry leans against the counter and drops his head in his hands.

“What?”

“I can’t go out with Louis Tomlinson on New Year’s Eve!”

“Why not? You used to love going to shows! And besides, didn’t you tell me you want to start dating? Who better to kick things off than a cute little pop star?”

“Like I said, Gems, I can’t go on a date with Louis Tomlinson. And you should know he would murder you if he heard you call him a _little pop star._ ” Harry wonders how long he has to wait before sending Louis a cancelation text.

“Oh come off it, how do you know that?” Gemma rolls her eyes.

“Trust me, I know.”

“Well I still don’t see why you can’t go out with him.”

“Let’s see,” Harry ticks off on his fingers, “he’s straight, he has a girlfriend, there’s no way he was actually asking me out…is that enough reasons?”

“He’s straight?” Gemma looks incredulous.

Harry glares at her disbelief.

“Ok, fine. But if that’s true then you can definitely go out with him, as friends! You said yourself you need friends. You’re not making any sense.”

“I can’t explain it. I just—I can’t get close to him. I don’t want to get close to him. How about that?”

“Humph.” Gemma crosses her arms over her chest and furrows her brow. “I think you’re being foolish.”

“Well, what else is new?” Harry resignedly unwraps his falafel.

“If you don’t go out with him, what are you going to do for New Year’s, sit at home by yourself?”

“Yes, that seems most likely.”

“Harry, no! You have to go out. Just give it a chance! You’re not coming over to mine, I won’t allow it.”

Harry sighs. “Gemma…”

“How about this: go out with him and if it’s terrible I’ll come pick you up and bring you back to mine. We can have a lovely sleepover and get sloshed on champagne. But if you don’t go out with Louis, no sleepover!”

“Why does this matter so much to you?”

“Because I love you, little brother! And it never hurts to have a celebrity connection or two.” She laughs as she digs back into her pita.


End file.
